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UNIVERSITY 


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https://archive.org/details/poemsOOrayh 


POEMS 


BY 

H.  CORDELIA  RAY 


THE  GRAFTON  PRESS 

NEW  YORK  MCMX 


Copyright,  1910 
By  H.  CORDELIA  RAY 


ft  2  e,sP 


To  My  Dear  Sister 
FLORENCE, 

and  to  the  memory  of  a  household  made 
beautiful  by  the  presence  of  those  loved 
ones  zcho  have  entered  the  Life  Immortal, 
these  poems  are  affectionately  dedicated. 


CONTENTS 


A  Rosary  of  Fancies 

PAGE 

The  Sculptor’s  Vision .  6 

Fancy  and  Imagination .  7 

Repose .  9 

The  Mist  Maiden . 10 

May’s  Invocation . 11 

The  Poet’s  Ideal . 12 

The  Perfect  Orchestra . 13 

Wood  Carols . 16 

A  Dream  of  Elfland . 17 

Dawn’s  Carol . 18 

On  the  Picture  of  A  Child . 18 

A  Dream  Within  A  Song . 20 

Song . 21 

A  Picture . 21 

Sunset  Picture . 22 

An  Idyl  of  Spring . 23 

A  Group  of  Musings . 24 

In  a  Nook  Called  Fairyland . 251 

On  the  Concord  River . 25 

Cloud  Fantasy . 26 

Invocation  to  the  Muse . 27 

The  Vision  of  Eve . 28 

Ode  on  the  Twentieth  Century . 30 

Meditations 

The  Hour’s  Glory . 36 

Reverie . 36 

v 


PAGE 


God’s  Ways,  Not  Our  Ways . 38 

Nature’s  Minor  Chords . 40 

At  Nature’s  Shrine . 40 

Cloud  Song . 40 

My  Easter  Dove . 41 

Questioning . 42 

Hidden  Essence . 43 

A  Fragment . 43 

Star  Song . 44 

Easter  Carol . 45 

An  Ideal . 4$ 

The  Hermit  and  the  Soul . 47 

Compensation . 47 

A  Vision  of  Moonlight . 48 

Sea  Cadences . 50 

A  Thought  on  Lake  Ontario . 51 

Sky  Picture . 52 

Hymn  to  the  Thousand  Islands . 53 

On  the  Rapids  of  the  St.  Lawrence . 53 

Voices  of  the  Rain . 54 

Our  Task . 

Echo  Reverie . 56 

Lines  Written  on  a  Farewell  View  of  the  Franconia 

Mountain  at  Twilight . 57 

The  Coming  of  Spring . 57 

Failure . 58 

The  Triple  Benison . 60 

Verses  to  My  Heart’s  Sister . 61 

Among  the  Berkshire  Hills . 63 

Evening  Prayer . 65 

Retrospection . 65' 

At  Christmas-Tide . 66 

Broken  Heart . 67 

Prayer . 69 

Shadow  and  Sunshine . 70 

Soul  Incense . 71 

vi 


Sonnets 

PAGE 

To  My  Mother . 74 

Life . 74 

Aspiration . 75 

Incompleteness . 75 

Self-Mastery . 76 

Niobe . 76 

The  Two  Musicians . 77 

The  Poet’s  Ministrants . 77 

Milton . 78 

Shakespeare . 78 

Raphael . 79 

Beethoven . 79 

The  Tireless  Sculptor . 80 

The  Soul’s  Courts  .  80 

Limitations . 81 

The  Venus  of  Milo . 81 

The  Quest  of  the  Ideal . 82 

An  Ocean  Musing . 82 

Emerson . 83 

To  Laura . 83 

Champions  Of  Freedom 

To  My  Father . 86 

William  Lloyd  Garrison . 86 

Wendell  Phillips . 87 

Charles  Sumner . 87 

Robert  G.  Shaw . 88 

Toussaint  L’Ouverture . 88 

Baeeads  and  Other  Poems 

Rhyme  of  the  Antique  Forest . 90 

Musidora’s  Vision . 102 

Echo’s  Complaint . 108 

vii 


PAGE 

Antigone  and  CEdipus . 110 

Anita  and  Giovanni . 112 

Listening  Njdia . 115 

Mignon . 117 

The  Fisherman’s  Story . 118 

Snow  Song . 120 

Pastoral . 122 

Idyl . 123 

The  Enchanted  Shell . 125 

Chateaux  En  Espagne . 126 

The  Fading  Skiff . 127 

The  Maid  of  Ehrenthal . 128 

Mildred’s  Doves . 129 

Little  Fa}r’s  Thanksgiving . 130 

Chansons  D’Amour 

The  Dawn  of  Love . 131 

The  Siren  Bird . 134 

Reunited  . 135 

Love’s  Vista . 136 

My  Spirit’s  Complement . 137 

Recompensed? . 137 

The  Messengers . 138 

O  Restless  Heart,  Be  Still ! . 139 

Boat  Song . 140 

Cuckoo  Song . 140 

Quatrains 

At  Sunset . 144 

Life’s  Boundary . 144 

Charity . 144 

Awakening . 144 

Lost  Opportunities . 144 

Ambition . 145 

Full  Vision . 145 


vin 


PAGE 


After  the  Storm . 145 

At  the  Cascade . 145 

Nature’s  Uplifting . 145 

Instability . 146 

The  Afterglow . 146 

The  Procession  Of  The  Seasons 

January . 148 

February . 148 

March . 148 

April  . 149 

May . 149 

June . 149 

July . 149 

August . 150 

September . 150 

October . 150 

November . 150 

December . 151 

The  Seer,  The  Singer,  and  The  Sage 

Dante . 154 

Longfellow . 155 

A  Thought  At  Walden . 157 

Heroic  Echoes 

Quebec . 160 

In  Memoriam,  Frederick  Douglass . 161 

Greeting  to  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  on  Her 

Eighty-Fifth  Birthday . 164 

In  Memorian,  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  .  .  .  .166 

Lincoln . 167 


IX 


A  ROSARY  OF  FANCIES 


The  Sctjlptob’s  Vision 

A  sculptor  musing  sat  one  eve, 

When  crimson  clouds  began  to  weave 
Their  sunset  drapery  in  the  sky; 

Cold  was  his  studio  and  bare, 

But  golden  sunbeams  lingered  there, 
And  robins  caroling  flew  by. 

A  vision  on  his  dreaming  broke; 

With  parted  lips  and  eyes  that  spoke, 

A  statue  stood  of  beauty  rare, 

And  chiseled  with  such  exquisite  care, 

It  seemed  no  mortal  hand  had  share 
In  what  was  like  embodied  prayer. 

The  sculptor  woke  to  find  his  dream 
Of  loveliness  was  but  a  gleam 
Of  what  the  future  might  unfold; 

And  then  resolved  to  labor  late, 

Until  his  work  his  dream  could  mate, 
And  daily  carved  with  joy  untold. 

But  sometimes  sorrow  mingled  there, 

For  naught  he  fashioned  could  compare 
With  that  chaste  form  which  ev’ry  night, 
Would  come  to  give  him  impulse  new, 
To  bid  him  seek  the  pure,  the  true, 

And  lead  him  to  a  clearer  light. 

Nor  wrought  the  sculptor  all  in  vain ; 
The  statue  grew  despite  his  pain, 

In  curves  of  beauty,  strength  and  grace 

6 


And  so  he  loved  his  magic  art, 

His  very  soul  seemed  to  impart 
A  something  human  to  the  face. 

Yet  was  the  vision  fairer  still; 

Its  subtle  presence  seemed  to  fill 
The  space  before  his  troubled  gaze. 

It  beckoned  him  to  heights  unknown, 

And  charmed  him  like  the  undertone 
That  floats  through  many  olden  lays. 

And  on  he  toiled  from  hour  to  hour, 
Exerting  all  his  skill  and  pow’r, 

With  fondest  love  and  trust  and  prayer 
But  as  the  work  in  beauty  grew. 

Strange  longing  haunted  him  anew: 

For  lo!  his  ideal  was  more  fair. 

As  in  his  strife,  is  it  not  thus 
That  we  are  baffled,  all  of  us, 

In  seeking  clearer,  truer  light? 

Then  let  us,  like  the  sculptor,  still 
Pursue  our  toil  with  deathless  will, 
Advancing  toward  a  glorious  height. 

And  when  our  ideal  grows  more  fair, 
More  earnest  should  be  all  our  care 
To  carve  with  added  grace  and  skill; 
And  then  the  task  that  we  pursue, 

Will  serve  to  give  us  impulse  new, 

Our  souls  with  calm  content  to  fill. 

Fancy  and  Imagination 

Golden  mists  o’er  Cloudland  wreathing 
Arabesques  of  shining  sheen, 

Sunny  airs  of  violets  breathing, 

7 


Lure  weird  Fancy,  Cloudland’s  queen. 

Lo !  she  hastens,  flower-encircled, 

Dainty,  pensive,  winsome  fay, 

Her  fair  brow  all  rose-empurpled, 

While  around  flutes  pour  soft  lay. 

There  is  she, — Imagination ! 

Gazing  upward  in  her  dreams ; 

Rapt,  intent  on  meditation, 

Sculpturesque,  yet  thrilled,  she  seems. 

Planets  lure  her  in  their  spaces, 

Stars  strew  gold  dust  on  her  path; 

She  has  looked  them  in  their  faces, 

And  a  hint  divine  she  hath. 

Rare  pellucid  hues  of  dawning, 

Iris  tints  of  summer  skies, 

Streak  fair  Fancy’s  couch;  glad  Morning 
Bids  her  ope  her  lovely  eyes. 

Wind-songs  quaint  Eolus  showers 
Round  her  home  of  golden  mist; 

Sweet  she  sings  them  in  her  bowers, 

And  the  Silence  harks,  I  wist. 

All  the  pomp  of  constellations 
Wrakes  Imagination’s  gaze; 

World  apart  in  meditations, 

Sits  she  living  wondrous  days. 

She  can  hear  the  chiming  measures 
Of  the  stars  with  stately  tread, 

The  celestial  strains  she  treasures, 

Rev’rently  she  bowrs  her  head. 

Tired  heart!  when  life  is  dreary, 

And  the  years  drag  slowly  on, 

Summon  airy  Fancy,  weary 
Is  she  never,  hear  her  song! 

8 


Soul  unresting,  tossed  with  sorrow! 
Just  one  strain  of  harmony 
From  Imagination  borrow, 

Calmest  joy  she’ll  yield  to  thee. 


Repose 

On  every  height  there  lies  repose. — Goethe. 

An  angel  with  a  voice  like  summer  show’rs, 

Or  woodbird  melodies  in  tranquil  hours, 

Brought  me  one  day  a  wondrous,  radiant  rose 
Called  in  those  happy  isles  but  this:  Repose. 

Its  fragrance  was  the  balm  of  early  flow’rs. 

Fresh  with  the  magic  of  the  Spring’s  new  pow’rs ; 
Its  petals  quivered  with  a  soothing  trill, 

Like  the  soft  murmur  of  a  mountain  rill. 

Its  hues  were  exquisite  as  dawning  skies 
When  the  first  splendor  greets  the  watcher’s  eyes, 
Or  as  the  sea-shell  seen  through  silver  spray, 

Or  as  the  last  bright  tint  of  fading  day. 

The  angel  said:  “  Not  now  may  this  thine  be, 

I  only  came  to  offer  it  to  thee; 

Not  as  a  gift  but  as  a  hard-earned  meed, 

I  give  it  to  all  those  who  feel  its  need.” 

One  moment  fast  I  held  it,  and  a  light 
Like  to  an  aureole,  gleamed  golden-white 
O’er  all  around ;  while  blended  echoes  clear, 

Stealing  in  unison,  fell  on  my  ear. 

“  How  may  I  gain  this  priceless  flow’r?  ”  I  cried. 

The  angel  in  a  flute-like  voice  replied, 

“  Neither  by  works  nor  penance,  prayer  nor  pain, 
Canst  thou  this  rare  celestial  flower  gain. 

9 


“  But  when  love  of  mankind  and  duty  flow 
In  one  all-perfect  song,  one  golden  glow, 

When  purest  echoes  soar  from  purest  aims. 
Then  will  I  come  once  more  to  heed  thy  claims.” 

The  angel  vanished  on  a  sunlit  cloud, 

But  still  his  words  were  speaking  to  me  loud. 

I  bowed  my  head,  resolved  to  claim  the  rose 
Called  in  those  happy  isles  but  this :  Repose. 


The  Mist  Maiden 

Is  it  an  idle  fantasy, 

That  in  the  twilight’s  violet  gloom, 
When  waves  are  singing  out  at  sea, 
And  shadows  fill  the  room, — 

The  mist  assumes  before  my  gaze, 

A  human  form  of  exquisite  grace, 

And  by  the  melancholy  haze, 

Is  veiled  a  peerless  face? — 

A  maiden  loved  when  life  was  new, 
Her  soul  was  trust,  her  eyes  a  prayer; 
She  faded  quite.  Can  it  be  true 
I  see  her  in  the  air? 

Her  eyes  are  crystals,  dropping  tears, 
Her  hair  reflects  the  silver  moon ; 

Will  ecstasy  or  sudden  fears 
Conquer  my  heart  more  soon? 

She  stands  in  statuesque  repose, 

A  chiseled  vision,  calm  and  fair; 

She  smiles:  my  full  heart  overflows, 
The  maid  dissolves  in  air. 

10 


May’s  Invocation 

After  a  Tardy  Spring 

With  her  buskins  tipped  with  dew, 

Came  a  fair,  enchanting  fay, 

Tiptoeing  the  forest  through; 

Who  was  it  but  smiling  May? 

Wide  she  waved  her  sylph-like  arms, 

As  with  Dian’s  grace  she  ran, 

Laden  with  a  thousand  charms. 

Then  to  urge  her  plea  began : 

Lilies,  lilies !  come,  wake  up ! 

Ring  your  dainty,  perfumed  bells. 
Hasten  !  yellow  buttercup ! 

Rouse!  throw  off  Dame  Winter’s  spells. 

Sweet-faced  pansies,  ivake  from  dreams ! 
Raise  your  melancholy  eyes. 

They  are  veiled  too  long,  it  seems ; 

’Tis  no  time  for  reveries. 

Come  shy  violets,  and  ye, 

Bonnie  daisies !  why  so  late? 

Look!  the  sunbeams  kiss  the  lea, 

Do  not  longer  drowse  and  wait! 

Ay !  the  Sunshine  is  my  knight 
Who  has  lavished  all  his  gold 
For  you  laggards.  What  a  plight 
That  ye  grasp  not  wealth  untold! 

Now  she  stayed  her  speech  to  shed 
Fom  her  curved  horn  nectar  rare, 

On  each  willing,  waiting  head ; 

Then  resumed  her  wistful  prayer. 

11 


Swallows,  robins,  orioles ! 

Tender  thrush  of  liquid  lay, 

Why  not  here?  the  breeze-harp  rolls 
Far,  inspiring  tones  to-day. 

Bobolink,  O  tarry  not! 

See !  the  twigs  are  edged  with  green ; 
In  the  meadow  there’s  a  spot 
Dear  unto  thy  heart,  I  ween. 

Doves  from  out  your  downy  nest, 

Coo,  O  coo  a  matin  soft ; 

Just  a  hint  of  life’s  unrest 
Echoes  through  your  music  oft. 

Lark !  I  languish  for  thy  note ; 

Where  in  hiding  may’st  thou  be? 
With  thy  silver-cadenced  throat 
Lead  the  Springtime’s  minstrelsy. 

Flow’rets,  flow’rets,  warblers,  haste! 
April  came  with  languid  call; 

Not  a  moment  can  ye  waste! 

Wake  ye!  wake  ye!  wake  ye  all! 


The  Poet’s  Ideae 

“  Spirit !  what  art  thou  erecting 
On  the  heights  of  contemplation, 
Where  the  vistas  blue  and  shadowy, 
Fade  in  airy  clouds  away? 

At  the  fane  of  meditation 
Art  thou  bowed  to-day?  ” 

“  Lo !  I  climbed  in  floating  ether 
When  the  first  tints  of  the  dawning, 
O’er  the  pale  stars  chaste  in  grandeur, 
12 


Shed  a  stream  of  liquid  light; 

In  the  azure  calm  of  morning 
Gleamed  a  vision  bright. 

“  Twas  air-fashioned:  faint,  dissolving, 
Seemed  its  statuesque  proportions, 

Yet  imperious  and  majestic 
Were  its  gestures  and  its  mien ; 

And  all  beauty  seemed  distortions 
To  this, — fairest  ever  seen. 

“  Round  its  head  a  circlet  shaping, 

Wove  a  cloud  its  golden  tissues, 

Where  these  words  were  writ  in  splendor: 
‘Ideal  Beauty  is  my  name; 

I  from  life  draw  finest  issues, 

Wouldst  thou  do  the  same?  ’ 

“  Poised  aloft  on  heights  serenest, 

There  she  stands, — that  radiant  vision. 
At  the  fane  of  meditation, 

Wouldst  thou  know,  O  questioner? 

Lo !  I  bow  in  calm  decision. 

Yield  my  thoughts  to  her. 

“  ’Mid  the  vistas  blue  and  shadowy, 

’Mid  the  ether  iris-tinted, 

I  erect  Ideal  Perfection, 

And  then  worship  at  her  shrine ; 

To  the  poet  she  has  hinted 
Sense  of  things  divine.” 


The  Perfect  Orchestra 

Up  to  those  heights  where  angels  rest, 
Where  dreams  and  yearnings  unexpressed 
Mount  like  the  mist  of  day, 

13 


Ascends  a  solemn  symphony 

Soft  gliding  through  the  ethereal  sea, 

From  mortal  realms  away. 

Men  moved  by  ecstasy  or  pain, 

Conscious  of  all  life  ne’er  can  gain 
Or  rapt  in  visions  fleet, 

Musicians  are:  but  through  the  hush 
Of  harmonies  transcendent,  rush 
Hints  of  the  incomplete. 

On  instruments  unlike  they  play; 

Some  wake  the  lute  with  gentle  lay, 
Some  touch  the  viol’s  string, 

While  others  with  unconscious  art, 

From  the  sad  organ’s  deep-toned  heart 
Accents  all  soothing  bring. 

The  noble  thoughts,  the  earnest  prayers 
Of  ev’ry  one  that  meekly  bears 
The  tangled  skein  of  life, 

Each  holy  prompting  unto  good, 

Great  aspirations  oft  withstood, 

Yet  cherished  ’mid  the  strife, — 

And  truth  that,  like  the  lily’s  bowl, 

Glistens  with  dew  within  the  soul 
And  balmy  fragrance  show’rs, 

Hopes  that  have  made  earth  seem  so  glad, 
Loves  irresistible  though  sad, 

Like  brilliant  thorn-clad  flow’rs, — 

These  are  the  chords  that  beat  and  throb 
Through  the  dream-quiet,  like  a  sob 
Tremulous  with  complaint. 

As  slow  they  flutter  toward  the  goal, 

Rare  coils  of  mystery  unroll 
Melodies  pure  and  quaint. 

14 


Unheard  this  strange,  imploring  psalm, 
Save  by  some  pensive  seer,  who  calm 
Leans  on  his  dripping  oar; 

Safe-anchored  on  an  island  far, 

Where  life’s  unrest,  its  fev’rish  jar 
Can  trouble  nevermore. 

To  him  in  peaceful  waves  it  comes, 

Soft  as  the  silver  river  hums 
The  silence  to  beguile. 

From  contemplation  of  the  stars 
Just  peeping  through  the  sunset  bars, 
He  turns  to  list  a  while. 

But  angels  on  those  heights  sublime 
Where  naught  save  unison  can  climb, 
Bend  eager,  loving  ears ; 

Glad  in  mankind  such  good  to  see, 

For  there  the  music  soareth  free, 

Piercing  the  spangled  spheres. 

Responding  to  this  asking  son g, 

This  mystic  music  heard  so  long, 

They  lend  their  sympathy, 

Which  through  the  concord  softly  floats, 
Like  to  a  flute’s  clear,  trilling  notes 
Heard  on  the  moonlit  sea. 

The  orchestra  more  perfect  made, 

The  strains  mount  up  where  streets  inlaid 
With  rare  mosaic  wind; 

One  cadence  still  is  missing  there, 

The  sweet  Eolian’s  trembling  prayer 
No  soul  on  earth  could  find. 

Ascending  near  the  radiant  throne, 
Sorrow  pervades  the  music’s  tone, 

15 


Sorrow  ne’er  heard  before; 

Its  quiver  stirs  the  asphodels 
And  roses,  where  the  streamlet  wells, 
Encircling  all  the  shore. 

God,  who  alone  translates  our  pain, 
Listens  and  gives  unto  the  strain 
His  benediction  calm ; 

And  quickly  that  mysterious  boon, 
Like  an  Eolian’s  wind-played  tune, 
Makes  perfect  all  the  psalm. 


Wood  Carols 

When  woods  are  odorous  at  eve 
With  violet  perfume,  and  are  fair 
With  leafy  vistas  stretching  far, 

Tinged  by  the  golden  air, 

The  mirrored  clouds  come  down  to  catch 
The  warbling  of  a  thousand  streams ; 
And  music  weird  like  chords  confused, 
Heard  in  unquiet  dreams, — 

Floats  through  the  arches  from  the  clear 
Wind-harps  astir  among  the  trees, 

While  in  lone  depths  the  nightingale 
Trills  soothing  melodies. 

Doves  tenderly  the  prelude  coo 
To  plaintive  anthems  yet  unsung, 

And  leaves  respond  with  dreamy  sway, 
That  late  all  passive  hung. 

Waves  of  tremolo  sweetness  make 
The  warm  air  palpitate  with  sound, 

16 


Until  the  woods  are  quivering 
With  music  all  around. 

Each  note  enfolding  one  more  soft — ■> 
Of  some  enchanting  whole  a  part — 
Wakes  the  un uttered  harmonies 
Of  ev’ry  restless  heart. 

When  undertones  of  strange  unrest 
Within  us  moan  like  babes  in  pain, 
Come  nightingale  of  silver  song, 

And  trill  thy  sweetest  strain. 

When  thought  lies  gently  on  the  soul 
Like  dew  impearled  upon  a  rose, 
Come  tender  doves  of  cadence  rare, 
And  lull  us  to  repose. 


A  Dream  op  Elfland 

Sweet  elfin  music  comes  to  me, 

Across  a  glen  embowered  deep, 

In  rugged  green.  What  fantasy 
Did  give  it  voice — like  dreams  in  sleep — 
Through  fluted  winds?  An  airy  flood 
Of  cadences,  dainty  and  soft 
As  rose  leaves  flutt’ring  to  the  sod, 
Enfolds  the  sense  and  feelings  oft. 

Through  what  air-woven  lyres  blow 
The  winsome  elves?  Chords  interlaced 
In  sweetest  rhythm  lull  me  so, 

Surely  Titania  must  have  graced 
That  weird  rehearsal.  Did  they  sup 
On  drowsy  poppy  flowers,  ere 
They  sent  vibrations  o’er  the  strings, — 

A  breath  of  music,  passing  rare? 

17 


The  elves,  they  strike  such  witching  strains 
They  lull  sad  Sorrow  fast  asleep; 

What  heart  is  torn,  what  soul  complains, 
While  they  each  sense  in  music  steep ! 
Unwind  your  sylvan  symphonies, 

Ye  weird  musicians,  breeze-like  play, 

Until  your  dulcet  harmonies 
Waft  us  to  magic  isles  away. 


Dawn’s  Carol 

Fair  Mom  unbars  her  gates  of  gold; 
Night’s  shadows  lie,  a  thousand  fold, 
Upon  the  hills,  the  purple  mist 
By  pure  Aurora’s  radiance  kissed, 
Becomes  a  dream  of  color:  now 
Uplift  the  heart  and  bare  the  brow. 

Such  moments  for  us  seem  to  weave 
Hope’s  loveliest  tissues ;  we  perceive 
The  soul’s  illumination,  caught 
From  some  fair  mood  of  Nature  fraught 
With  harmony  of  sight  and  sound, 

In  majesty  diffused  around. 


On  the  Picture  of  a  Child 

Sweet  child  amid  the  apple  boughs, 
How  tenderly  life  looks  on  thee! 

And  Mother  Nature  brings  her  gifts, 
Yes,  e’en  the  loveliest  that  may  be, 

To  tempt  thy  innocent  regard. 

How  blue  the  heavens  smile  above! 
How  crimson  is  the  rose’s  depth! 

How  beaming  is  the  glance  of  love, 

18 


Resting  on  thee,  thou  sportive  fay; 

Thou  learnst  new  lessons  ’mid  the  leaves ; 

All  golden-lettered  is  the  page 

The  flitting  sunbeam  deftly  weaves. 

Do  fairies  hang  their  glow-worm  lamps 
To  light  thy  path  adown  the  dell? 

And  does  the  lily  in  the  vale, 

To  thee  ring  soft  her  magic  bell? 

The  violet,  and  what  brings  she 
To  scatter  o’er  thy  charmed  way? 
Delicious  perfume ;  and  the  lark 
Prolongs  his  note  to  cheer  thy  day. 

There  is  a  radiance  in  thine  eyes 
That  well  disarms  all  vague  unrest ; 
Thou  hast  few  yearnings  undefined, 

Thy  childish  griefs  are  soon  confessed. 

Prayer  in  thy  soul  is  simple  trust, 

And  love  is  all  thy  life,  sweet  child ! 

The  woodbird’s  song  is  not  more  free, 

His  artless  lays  more  undefiled 

Than  thine.  Thy  sunny  countenance 
Is  naught  save  gladness,  yet  we  know 
The  thoughtful  years  come  on  apace; 
After  Spring’s  green,  the  Winter’s  snow. 

And  for  thee,  tender  one,  we  ask 
That  when  the  hours  of  trial  near, 

As  come  they  must,  undaunted  thou 
Wilt  dare  to  meet  them  without  fear. 

And  that  the  dew  within  thy  soul, 

Of  innocence  and  rev’rent  love, 

19 


May  be  as  fresh  as  now,  until 
Thou  wear’st  a  crown  of  light  above. 


A  Dbeam  Within  a  Song 

The  schooners  with  their  pale  green  lights 
Glance  up  and  down  the  river; 

I  clasp  my  hand  in  Memory’s  own 
And  hush  my  heart’s  sad  quiver. 

Glad  twilight  birds  chirp  overhead, 

And  soft  their  gray  wings  flutter; 

We  pluck  rare  purple  grapes,  sweet  friend, 
And  loving  words  we  utter. 

Wan  statues  stare  in  gardens  fair, 

Proud  in  their  cold  beseeching; 

I  stretch  my  hands  to  grasp  a  prize, 

Too  far  off"  for  the  reaching. 

The  thrush  sits  lonely  on  a  spray 
Hard  by  a  pure  white  flower; 

I  hear  a  strain,  oh  deadly  sweet, 

Float,  swan-like,  through  the  bower. 

The  breeze  has  sped  on  noiseless  wing, 

The  river’s  restless  growing, 

The  singer  greets  us  on  this  bank, 

With  music  round  him  flowing. 

The  trees  with  red  leaves  garlanded, 

The  river’s  banks  are  shading; 

I  call  the  singer,  but  alas ! 

He,  phantom-like,  is  fading. 

20 


One  silver  star  has  crowned  the  eve, 
Closed  are  the  drowsy  flowers ; 

I  clasp  my  hand  in  Memory’s  own, 
And  leave  these  fatal  bowers. 


Song 

O  sweet,  sad,  singing  river, 

Why  dost  thou  chime  forever 
In  answer  to  my  weary  heart’s  unrest? 

Wilt  thou  not  be  confiding, 

Or  is  thy  music  hiding 

Some  sorrow  that  can  never  be  confessed? 

O  melancholy  river, 

Why  do  thy  young  leaves  quiver 
So  plaintively  along  thy  silent  shore? 

Are  they  some  bird  lamenting, 

That  for  a  while  consenting 

To  warble  to  them,  now  far  off  would  soar? 

0  sweet,  sad,  singing  river, 

My  heart  cannot  dissever 

Itself  from  tender  hopes  that  round  it  cling. 

O  lily-crowned  river, 

Love,  though  discrowned  forever, 

Wears  lilies  the  enchanted  Past  will  bring. 


A  Picture 

Her  ringlets  glistened  like  the  gold  of  morn, 
And  framed  an  oval  outline  statue  fair, 

Save  where  a  shell-blush  lingered  for  awhile, 
Sending  its  ripples  to  the  wavy  hair. 

Upon  her  features  grace  had  shed  its  charm, 

21 


And  in  her  smile  sweetness  to  naught  gave  way; 
’Twas  like  a  streak  of  sunshine  thrown  across 
The  motionless  repose  of  early  day. 

No  sorrow  rested  on  the  calm,  pure  brow, 

But  thought  held  undisputed  empire  there. 

Eyes  like  the  dusky  blue  of  evening  skies, 

Gazed  in  a  dream  or  in  a  quiet  prayer; 

And  through  her  aspect  something  noble  shone, 
That  proved  the  soul  to  charity  had  grown. 


Sunset  Picture 

The  Sun-god  was  reclining  on  a  couch  of  rosy  shells, 

And  in  the  foamy  waters  Nereids  tinkled  silver  bells, 

That  lent  the  soft  air  sweetness,  like  an  echoed  seraph 
song, 

Floating  with  snowflake  hush  the  aisles  of  Paradise 
along. 

The  Sun-god  wove  bright  flowers,  gold  and  purple  in 
their  hue, 

And  to  the  smiling  Nereids  tenderly  the  blossoms  threw; 

The  sapphire  seas  were  shadowy,  like  an  eye  with  dreamy 
thought, 

Where  all  the  soul’s  mute  rapture,  a  prisoned'  star,  is 
caught. 

The  billows’  rainbow  splendor,  like  a  strange,  enchant¬ 
ing  dream, 

In  fading,  softened  slowly  to  a  trembling  pearly  gleam; 

And  soon  the  wondrous  Sun-God,  and  the  Nereids  and 
the  sea 

Had  vanished ;  one  gray-tinted  cloud  alone  remained  to 
me. 


22 


An  Idyl  of  Spring 


The  air,  the  dream-inspiring  air 
Is  floating,  flutt’ring  all  around ; 

Delicious  waves  of  pent-up  sound 
Gush  forth  like  some  long  cherished  prayer. 
The  woodlands  gleam 
With  many  a  stream, 

The  skies  are  blue, 

A  promise  new. 

Wake  heart!  Hope  hastens  with  the  Spring! 
Aerial  pinions  waft  her  near; 

A  fairy  palace  crystal  clear, 

Round  w'hich  the  rosy  sunbeams  cling, 
Cannot  compare 
With  castles  fair, 

She  builds  at  morn 
By  clouds  upborne. 

In  greenest  vales  the  lily  wakes, 

The  violets  in  the  breezes  share, 

And  oh !  the  strange,  enchanting  air 
Through  pipes  fantastic  music  makes. 

And  we  so  free, 

By  reverie 

Are  caught  in  chains 
Of  exquisite  pains. 

O  treach’rous,  dream-inspiring  air! 

Yet  wherefore  mar  the  joy  it  brings? 

Do  we  complain  when  the  bird  sings, 

Because  his  song  dies  on  the  air? 

Like  mist  our  dreams 
Vanish,  it  seems, 

But  they  were  sweet, 
Although  so  fleet. 

23 


A  Group  of  Musings 


I 

Sunrise  Thought 

Aurora  gazed  from  out  her  shell-pink  bower, 

And  down  the  aisles  of  light  sent  a  fair  Hour 
With  roses  in  her  dainty  hands,  and  hark! 

A  lark’s  sweet  trill  disarms  the  twilight  dark. 


II 

Noonday  Thought 

The  tranquil  waters  slept  ’neath  Nature’s  smile, 
Watched  by  the  sunlit  skies,  as,  free  from  guile, 
The  tender  infant  sleeps,  while  o’er  its  bed 
The  mother,  yearning  dreamer,  bends  her  head. 


Ill 

Sunset  Thought 

The  crescent  moon  with  silver  sheen  aglow, 
Was  set  in  the  far  skies,  a  chiseled  bow; 
And  in  the  western  courts,  what  riot  rare 
Of  magic  hues  and  tints  beyond  compare ! 


IV 

Starlight  Thought 

Vistas  between  the  shadowy  pines  were  bright 
With  scintillating  stars,  and  all  the  night 
Was  claimed  by  Reverie;  rapt  ’neath  her  spell, 
Thoughts  come  to  us  whose  charm  no  tongue  can  tell. 

24 


On  A  Nook  Called  Fairyland 

Is’t  here  the  fairies  haunt  the  place, 

And  o’er  the  green  with  witching  grace 
Trip  to  the  merry  roundelay? 

Is’t  here  the  shepherd  pipes  his  note 
Where  fair  the  water  lilies  float, 

And  plaintively  the  pine  trees  sway? 

This  is  a  vale  of  dreams  :  anigh, 

In  dreamy  cadence  flutt’ring  by, 

Soft  woodland  murmurs  grow  apace. 

The  clouds  so  pure,  drift  there  on  high, 
Repose  seems  gazing  from  the  sky 
With  wistful  beauty  in  her  face. 

Yes,  this  is  fairyland !  but  where 
May  be  the  sportive  elves  who  share 
This  sylvan  solitude?  To-day 
No  footstep  lingers  on  the  green, 

The  quiet  song  of  waves,  I  ween, 

Echoes  no  more  the  roundelay. 

Life  is  not  spent  in  Fairyland  ; 

The  Spirit  that  this  beauty  planned, 
Gave  each  a  duty  to  fulfill. 

We  may,  light-hearted,  like  the  fay, 

Sing  gladsome  songs  from  day  to  day, 

If  we  fail  not  to  do  His  will. 


On  the  Concord  River 

Under  the  hemlocks  Fancy  came 
And  took  me  in  her  tender  arms ; 

She  sang  her  sweetest,  calmest  lays, 
And  wrapped  my  spirit  soft  in  balms. 

25 


Her  chaste  aerial  form  was  clad 
In  shining  vestments,  and  her  tread1 
Was  still  as  snowflake  music ;  e’en 
The  lily  did  not  bow  her  head. 

Her  eyes  with  misty  splendor  gleamed, 
Shining  like  fountains  in  the  sun ; 

She  comes, — a  breath  of  music  sweet, 
To  tune  my  life  to  unison. 

Beneath  the  hemlocks  folded  close 
In  Fancy’s  tender  arms,  I  lie, 

And  drifting,  dream  enchanted  dreams, 
While  soft  the  river  murmurs  by. 


Cloud  Fantasy 

I  floated  on  a  cloud  one  day, 

An  amber  cloud,  whose  rhythmic  sway 
Held  all  my  senses  in  a  dream. 

I  saw  the  trembling  vesper  stars 
Clinging  and  peeping  through  the  bars 
Of  purple-gold  and  pearly  gleam. 

’Mid  silver  spaces  caught  in  air, 

Floating  upon  the  cloudlets  fair, 

While  swinging  were  the  rhythmic  cars, 
Soft  rapture  did  my  senses  greet, 

A  music  tremulously  sweet, — 

The  harmony  beyond  the  stars. 

Suspended  in  the  ether  there, 

My  spirit  uttered  voiceless  prayer 
To  the  great  Being  of  the  Light. 

As  darkness  came  star-vistas  oped, 

My  soul  that  erst  in  shadows  groped, 
Rose  tranquilly  from  height  to  height. 

26 


Invocation  to  the  Muse 

Take  it  not  back !  the  priceless  gift ! 

The  joy  that  all  my  heart  would  thrill, — 
Creation’s  ecstasy  in  forms 
Which  a  mysterious  soul  did  fill. 

Has  Fancy  drained  her  silver  rills, 

And  hushed  her  tuneful  birds  the  while? 
Imagination  stayed  her  flight, 

Poised  on  near  hills  to  wait  the  smile, 

That  bids  her,  with  the  arrow’s  speed, 

Dart  past  the  clouds  in  ether  far, 

Nor  pause,  till  faint  with  ecstasy, 

She  chants,  lured  by  some  chanting  star? 

Where  is  the  strange,  celestial  lyre 
O’er  which  my  willing  soul  would  play? 
Give  back  once  more,  the  golden  lyre, 

I  would  be  thine  alone  to-day ! 

Comes  not  the  incense  from  the  fire 
Upon  thine  altar  lit,  O  Muse? 

There  lies  the  votive  offering, 

Wilt  thou  the  sacrifice  refuse? 

I  bring  this  mom  the  liquid  dew, 

Caught  from  Aurora,  as  she  flung 

Her  benison  of  dainty  light 

O’er  skies  where  shad’wy  curtains  hung. 

I  bring  the  music  caught  from  hearts, — 
Strange  minor  chords,  sad  yet  so  sweet, 
Which  pain  has  seared  with  ceaseless  clasp, 
And  gladness  with  a  clasp  so  fleet. 

27 


I  bring  the  music  caught  from  souls 
Aflame  with  hope  and  deepest  love, 

And  kissed  by  Life  with  throbbing  lips 
Into  the  peace  of  calmest  dove. 

Is  not  the  offering  complete, 

With  complement  of  joy  and  pain? 
Transformed  into  a  stream  of  light, 

It  floats, — a  harmony  again. 

I  raise  my  eyes  imploringly, 

Come,  holy  Rapture,  as  before! 

I  kneel  in  supplication  mute, 

Oh!  be  the  gift  but  mine,  once  more! 

*  *  *  *•  * 

’Tis  mine !  ’tis  mine !  the  altar  glows ! 

The  lyre  quivers,  touched  by  thee, 

O  Muse  benignant !  Low  I  bow, 
Wrapped  in  a  veil  of  mystery. 

Before  thy  fane  on  sacred  hills, 

My  daily  orison  I’ll  pour; 

I  have  thy  promise,  gracious  Muse, 

Mine  is  the  gift  forevermore! 


The  Vision  of  Eve 

When  from  the  gates  of  Paradise  fair  Eve 
Turned  her  reluctant  steps  with  saddest  mien 
A  sense  prophetic  stayed  her  blinding  tears, 
And  thus  she  yearning  cried,  her  sobs  between: 
“  Could  I  but  see  adown  the  coming  days ! 

Yet,  though  I  may  not  win  that  boon,  alas ! 
One  question  haunts  me  with  resistless  charm, 
What  will  my  daughters  be  when  aeons  pass? 

28 


She  bowed  her  head,  then  as  with  rev’rence  spoke 
“  A  hope  has  seized  my  spirit,  e’en  though  late 
It  cometh.  Ay !  and  will  my  fault  be  less 
By  what  they  may  achieve  of  good  or  great? 
Are  all  my  cherished  longings  to  be  vain? 

I  cannot  know  what  grander  purpose  lies 
Beyond  the  misty  verge  that  bounds  my  view.” 
She  ceased,  with  supplication  in  her  eyes. 


Again  we  see  the  Mother  of  mankind, 

Yet  not  discrowned  and  mournful  as  of  yore; 
From  amethystine  battlements  she  leans, 
Wide-eyed  with  wonder  and  admiring  awe. 

Far  past  the  planets,  past  the  swinging  stars, 
Past  worlds  on  worlds  that  spin  in  ether  there, 
Her  glances  wander  to  the  circling  earth, 
Lying  below  swathed  by  the  purpling  air. 


Lo !  what  is  it  she  sees?  Forms  like  to  hers, 
When  erst  she  paced  fair  Eden’s  flow’ry  courts; 
But  on  each  brow  there  sits  a  something  new, 
A  something  mystical.  Is  it  the  thoughts’ 
Deep  impress  which  the  centuries  have  left? 

The  seal  of  alternating  joy  and  woe, 

Of  care  and  grief,  anon  of  hope  and  love, 
Marked  by  the  ages  as  they  come  and  go? 


And  ever  on  and  on  the  glances  rove 
Of  our  first  mother.  Now  the  marble  yields 
In  Eve-like  contours  ’neath  the  skillful  touch 
Of  one ;  another  well  the  sceptre  wields ; 

And  one  self-poised,  regnant  in  dignity, 

In  philosophic  councils  holds  the  sway. 
Upon  the  battlefield,  one  kneels  to  stanch 
The  crimson  life-blood  as  it  ebbs  away. 

29 


And  thus  the  dreamer  spoke :  “  Are  these  my  kin, 

And  has  the  world  so  grown  since  those  sweet  days 
In  glorious  Paradise  when  Time  was  young? 

Are  these  my  daughters  who  with  sweeping  gaze, 

Can  scan  the  sheeny  Heavens  for  a  sign 
Of  God’s  deep  wisdom  writ  upon  the  skies? 

Are  these  indeed  my  children,  all  my  own? 

What  strange,  enchanting  visions  meet  my  eyes?  ” 

She  hears  the  rhythmic  strains  of  one  who  caught 
The  Muse’s  most  majestic  melodies; 

The  lofty  heights,  the  shining  altitudes 
Her  latest  children  climb,  with  pride  she  sees. 

“  Ah !  my  prophetic  hopes  were  not  in  vain,” 

Cried  Mother  Eve  with  eager  eyes  aglow; 

“Yet  could  I  dream  of  this  when  Time  began? 

The  deeds  my  daughters  dare  I  could  not  know.” 

She  paused,  and  soon  her  rapt  soliloquy 
Died  like  a  zephyr  o’er  a  leafy  lawn ; 

She  gazed  once  more  from  jeweled  battlements 
Far  down  the  firmament,  e’en  as  the  Dawn 
Blushed  in  the  east;  and  when  the  magic  hues 
Began  in  mimic  warfare  to  engage, 

Throughout  the  spheres  a  chiming  measure  thrilled, — 
The  vibrant  music  of  the  newer  age! 


ODE  ON  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 
(A  Dream-Prophecy.) 

What  seer  is  this, 

Who  gazing  calm  athwart  the  deep 
Where  pent-up  storms  and  thunders  sleep, 
Nothing  can  miss? 


30 


O’er  sweeping  with  his  falcon  glance  vast  tracks, 
Chaotic,  dim,  mysterious. 

What  lacks 

His  prescience  brooding  o’er  a  cycle  new? 

What  vaster  view 

Saw  ever  seer  of  eld  wrapped  in  a  trance? 

What  pageant  more  majestic  to  enhance 
His  spirit’s  yearning  mood? 

To  distant  caves 
The  mighty  ocean  laves, 

To  airy  grottoes,  where  the  lightning  wakes, 

His  searching  glance  is  sent. 

Serene,  absorbed,  attent, 

He  meditates ; 

Forcasting  what  may  be  in  days  unborn — 

Days  that  with  sunrise  freshness  all  impearled, 
With  wings  unfurled, 

Pause  to  alight  upon  a  waiting  world. 

“  What  may  they  bring  us,  Seer? 

Unto  thy  vision  clear 
Is  all  revealed? 

What  of  those  mystic  spheres 
Th’  unfathomable  years 
So  close  have  sealed? 

What  cult  is  taught  in  Venus? 

Shall  we  know 
Whether  there  come  and  go 
Fair  mortals  on  that  soil  unknown, 

To  manly  stature  grown? 

Are  hearth-fires  kindled  on  that  planet-isle, 

And  o’er  the  sacred  pile 

Does  incense  rise  to  some  Divinity? 

Look  closer,  Seer,  and  see !  ” 

O  the  wonder  of  the  vision ! 

0  the  marvel  of  the  sight! 

31 


What  shores  and  streams  Elysian ! 

What  scenes  with  splendor  dight! 

The  seer  is  rapt:  enkindled 
His  brooding  glance  has  grown ; 

Then  solemn  made  he  answer, 

With  myst’ry  in  his  tone. 

“  I  grope :  the  scales  are  yet 
Upon  my  asking  eyes ; 

Forebodings  of  surprise 
My  spirit  seize;  then  let 

Naught  rude  disturb  my  consecrated  mood. 

***** 

“  ’Tis  come!  ’tis  come!  the  vision  grows  apace! 
The  scales  have  fall’n,  and  behold !  I  trace 
Wonders  sublime; 

The  scroll  of  Time 
With  deeper  mysteries  will  be  o’er-writ. 

“  The  world  is  spanned  by  bridges 
Builded  of  rainbow  rays ; 

O’er  foam  and  wat’ry  ridges, 

They  glitter,  glitter  to  the  moon. 

They’ll  lead  the  foot  full  soon 
To  dwellings  past  the  Pleiads, 

To  Cassiope’s  bright  seat. 

A  thought!  and  lo,  we  gaze 
Amid  a  planet’s  haze. 

Could  motion  be  more  fleet? 

“  And  harken !  Down  the  chiming  spheres 
To  list’ning  ears, 

An  anthem  comes  from  Jupiter’s  vast  plain — 
A  matchless  strain. 

“A  message  from  a  star! 

Harness  the  winged  car 
32 


With  other  steeds  than  any  seen  before. 

Why  heed  our  lagging  pow’rs? 

Star-wisdom  will  be  ours ; 

E’en  in  a  flash  of  thought 
Intelligence  be  brought, 

Undreamed  of  lore. 

“  I  see  a  hall  of  weird  magnificence, 

All  studded  o’er  with  scintillating  gems 
Of  rarest  lustre;  ’tis  a  temple  whence 
Flows  wisdom  like  a  river;  nothing  stems 
The  rushing  of  its  richly  freighted  waves. 

Lo !  ’tis  on  Saturn’s  isles  where  stately  stands 
That  gleaming  hall,  and  countless  student  bands 
Are  flocking  thither  in  air-chariots  brought 
To  learn  the  subtlest  thought 
Of  star  and  planet  lore, 

All  unrevealed  before. 

“  Wisdom  from  worlds  erstwhile  beyond  our  ken. 
Stupendous !  marvelous  !  what  deeds  of  men 
Evoke  this  guerdon?  Lo!  the  Deity 
Makes  man  to  praise 
His  boundless  majesty. 

These  works  beyond  compare 
His  signet  bear. 

“  And  all  the  alchemy  of  Earth’s  vast  depths, 
Magic  in  coruscating  jewels  hid, 

Secrets  but  vaguely  hinted  by  the  winds, 

Marvels  beneath  the  Ocean’s  wavy  lid, 

Have  yielded  to  man’s  craving;  myst’ries  sealed 
Since  sun  and  moon  and  stars  from  Chaos  wheeled, 
Are  now  revealed. 

“  I  cease  to  gaze.  I  cannot  struggle  more 
With  mighty  sights  and  sounds  that  winged  come 

33 


From  space  illimitable,  and  my  eyes 
Grow  misty  ’neath  th’  effulgence.  I  am  dumb. 
I  cannot  fathom  what  so  near  me  lies — 
Wonders  unseen,  unheard,  unknown  before.” 
The  curtain  falls  again,  the  quest  is  o’er. 


34 


MEDITATIONS 


The  Hour’s  Glory 


(Suggested  by  Emerson’s  Essay,  “Works  and  Days.”) 

Each  hour  has  some  glory  all  its  own, 

Some  silver  lull  of  streams  unheard  before, 

Some  glimpses  rare  of  Nature’s  loveliness, 

Some  song  with  sweetness  newer  than  of  yore. 

Each  hour  waiting  spirits,  Peace  and  Hope, 

Stand  near  us  if  we  wave  them  not  away; 

Each  hour  questions  haunt  us,  bearing  balm 
Imprisoned  in  the  potent  yea  or  nay. 

Each  hour  is  a  Sibyl,  weird  and  strange, 

Of  eye  prophetic  and  of  backward  glance; 

Each  is  a  restless  bird  checked  in  its  flight, 

A  whisper  that  will  nevermore  entrance. 

Each  hour  souls  may  catch  celestial  pasans 
Of  subtle  meaning,  stealing  from  afar; 

As  when  through  shad’wy  deeps  of  purple  skies, 

In  voiceless  harmony  star  follows  star. 

Each  hour  may  gain  beauty  from  the  Past, 

And  with  the  Future’s  coming  glory  gleam; 

But  in  the  light  of  this,  all  radiance  fades : 

Each  hour  is  a  Truth  and  not  a  Dream. 

Reverie 

The  brook  glides  on  to  the  river, 

The  river  glides  to  the  sea; 

Each  seeks  for  a  broader  channel, 

For  broader  channels,  we. 

36 


If  we  throw  the  tiniest  pebble 

From  the  fringed,  sylvan  shore. 

The  river  in  widening  circles 

Flows  onward, — so  calm  before. 

The  zephyr  softly  trembles 

The  glist’ning  waves  along; 

The  gentle  drip  of  the  rain  drops 
Makes  sweeter  their  quiet  song. 

Word-pebbles  flung  by  the  heedless, 
Will  ripple  the  calmest  life; 

But  the  kindly  hints  of  friendship, 
Like  zephyrs,  soothe  the  strife. 

And  the  priceless  tears  that  only 
From  sympathy  can  flow, 

Like  raindrops,  cool  the  fever 

Of  the  troubled  waves  below. 

The  brook  glides  on  to  the  river, 

The  river  glides  to  the  sea ; 

Each  seeks  for  a  broader  channel, 

For  something  more  yearn  we. 

For  a  fuller,  deeper  knowledge 
Of  the  mystery  life  enfolds, 

That  puzzles  as  does  the  process 
By  which  the  sculptor  moulds. 

The  child  to  the  skies’  rose-tracery 
Lifts  often  his  earnest  eyes, 

Now,  lit  with  a  sense  of  its  beauty, 
And  now,  with  a  vague  surprise. 

So  erst  gazed  we  on  these  marvels, 

Nor  thought  of  the  Master-hand 

That  colors  the  delicate  moonbeams, 
And  seashells  among  the  sand. 

37 


So  we,  still  like  little  children, 

Have  read  not  one-half  the  scroll, 

Have  learned  not  one-half  the  lesson 
Life  gives  to  the  thoughtful  soul. 

Oh!  when  will  all  joy  be  perfect? 

Oh!  when  will  all  thought  be  free? 
Why  question?  We  glide  like  the  river, 
Toward  a  vast,  vast  sea. 

The  brook  glides  on  to  the  river, 

The  river  glides  to  the  sea ; 

Our  yearnings  will  blend  with  the  chorus 
Of  God’s  ocean,  Eternity! 


God’s  Ways,  Not  Oxjr  Ways 

Men  choose  a  crystal  goblet  filled  with  wine, 

That  thirst  and  sense  of  beauty  in  all  haste 

May  be  indulged;  but  soon  the  wine  is  spilled 
Or  proves  unpleasant  to  the  sated  taste ; 

The  crystal  chasteness  of  the  goblet  slow 
Grows  dimmer,  and  thus  beauty  is  a  loss ; 

And  man  full  weary,  to  the  wayside  flings 

That  wealth  of  pleasure  which  has  turned  to  dross, 

Close  hugs  a  wooden  bowl — no  substitute 

For  grace  and  radiance — and  with  pleading  eyes, 

Begs  his  Creator  humbly  to  send  down 

One  drop  of  water  from  the  plenteous  skies ; 

God  grants  the  boon,  man  drinks  and  is  content. 

Most  men  refuse  to  tread  on  this  or  that, 

In  their  attempts  to  climb  where  angels  are; 

Some  fain  would  walk  on  roses,  some  on  down, 

Some  reach  on  waves  of  light  the  nearest  star; 

38 


But  from  the  devious  modes  that  they  devise, 

One  has  adjusted  been  to  ev’ry  need; 

The  fiat  born  of  Wisdom  goeth  forth, 

And  man  must  reck  not  that  his  feet  will  bleed ; 
Nor  dare  to  say  in  lofty  arrogance, 

“  Walk  thou  in  that  path,  I  will  -walk  in  this 
For  he  who  would  attain  where  angels  bathe 
Their  willing  souls  in  affluence  of  bliss, 

Must  climb  on  Patience'  ladder  up  to  God. 


Nature’s  Minor  Chords 

The  stirring  of  a  feathery  cloud 

May  wake  a  thought  of  richest  worth, 

The  dew  upon  the  lily’s  rim 

To  deepest  reverie  give  birth. 

Half  glimpses  caught  in  idle  hours 
Of  shifting  lights  upon  a  stream, 

Some  sudden  glory  in  the  skies 

May  give  the  soul  a  magic  dream. 

The  scent  of  wood-glades  when  glad  Spring 
Is  penciling  the  dainty  leaves, 

Like  subtlest  music,  round  the  heart 

A  web  of  strange  enchantment  weaves. 

The  robin’s  carol  to  the  dawn 

Soothes  like  the  answer  to  a  prayer; 

The  cushat’s  melancholy  plaint 

May  change  our  mood  quite  to  despair. 

In  Nature’s  wondrous  orchestra. 

The  quiver  of  a  single  strain 

Will  poise  a  thought,  and  give  the  soul 
Most  exquisite  repose  or  pain. 

39 


At  Nature’s  Shrine 


Sweet  Nature,  give  me  holy  dreams, 
Caress  thy  child  once  more! 

Thy  holiest  cadence  softly  chant 
As  thou  didst  oft  of  yore. 

Amid  these  mountains  silence-sealed, 
Beneath  this  tender  sky, 

Soothed  by  thy  harmony  divine, 
Forever  would  I  lie. 

Now  creeps  the  mist, — a  violet  veil, 
Above  the  sacred  hills ; 

The  rainbow  shimmers  in  the  east, 

Low  coo  the  sparkling  rills. 

My  soul  so  soothed  beneath  thy  touch, 
O  Nature,  chaste  and  calm, 
Would  bow  before  these  solemn  fanes, 
And  pour  its  grateful  psalm. 

These  mountains  veiled  in  mystery, 

These  skies  with  meaning  fraught, 
Rest  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 
Whose  tones  Creation  caught. 

As  the  strange  music  of  the  shell 
Tells  of  the  mighty  sea, 

So  these  all  to  our  rev’rent  souls, 

Great  Father,  speak  of  Thee! 


Cloud  Song 

O  snowflake  clouds,  O  feath’ry  clouds, 
Sailing  through  deeps  of  sky, 

Look  through  the  boughs,  the  apple  boughs, 
Come  to  the  earth  more  nigh. 


40 


Bring  me  a  rift  of  sunshine  gold, 

To  circle  round  mj  brow; 

In  breezy  robes  I  fain  would  drift 
To  some  blest  island  now. 

Catch  me  the  dew  from  those  fair  hills 
Where  ye  are  wont  to  rest ; 

Bring  me  the  rose  from  Summer  skies, 
When  Day  dreams  in  the  west. 

Gather  the  rainbow’s  mingled  hues, — 
A  blush  of  purity ; 

Give  me  the  sparkle  of  the  waves 
Of  the  mysterious  sea. 

O  snowflake  clouds,  O  feath’ry  clouds, 
Sailing  through  deeps  of  sky, 

Can  ye  not  bring  a  hint  of  song 
And  drop  it  from  on  high? 

Some  tender  song  the  seraphs  sing, 
So  soothing,  I  could  dream 

That  the  sweet  light  of  Paradise 
On  my  life-path  did  gleam. 


My  Easter  Dove 

There  came  a  dove,  an  Easter  dove, 
W7hen  morning  stars  grew  dim; 

It  fluttered  round  my  lattice  bars, 

To  chant  a  matin  hymn. 

It  brought  a  lily  in  its  beak, 

Aglow  with  dewy  sheen ; 

I  caught  the  strain,  the  incense  breathed, 
And  uttered  praise  between. 

41 


It  brought  a  shrine  of  holy  thoughts 
To  calm  my  soul  that  day ; 

I  caught  the  meaning  of  the  note, 
Why  did  it  fly  away? 

Come  peaceful  dove,  sweet  Easter  dove! 

Above  earth’s  storm  and  strife, 
Sing  of  the  joy  of  Easter-tide, 

Of  light  and  hope  and  life. 


Questioning 

Can  life’s  best  consciousness  of  joy 
Quite  charm  the  soul  without  alloy? 

Or  will  its  hidden  depths  be  stirred 
All  unawares,  by  some  chance  word, 

To  deep  regret  or  nameless  pain, 

With  fev’rish  yearning  in  its  train? 

Av !  as  the  shadows  fleck  the  grass 
When  through  his  courts  the  Sun  doth  pass, 
So  in  the  measure  Life  must  dole 
To  th’  insatiate,  asking  soul, 

Shade  gives  to  bloom  its  best  relief, 

Joy  comes  the  sweeter  after  grief. 

Each  struggle  toward  a  clearer  light, 

Each  noble  impulse  unto  right 
Makes  struggle  easy,  effort  grand ; 

Lo !  when  we  seize  with  eager  hand 
The  regal  rose  and  meet  the  thorn, 

We  heed  not  though  our  flesh  be  torn. 

For  life’s  best  joy  may  not  all  be 
Intense  delight  though  e’er  so  free 
42 


From  hint  of  sorrow,  but  the  calm 
That  soothes  the  spirit,  like  a  psalm 
Of  benediction  floating  by, 

In  strains  serenest  caught  on  high. 


Hidden  Essence 

Some  gold  lies  veiled  behind  each  evening  cloud. 
Some  beauty  hides  in  every  quiet  stream, 

Some  love  entwines  its  tendrils  round  each  soul, 

With  all  the  rare  devotion  of  a  dream. 

Some  rose  looks  forth  from  ev’ry  curled  bud, 

Some  note  drifts  warbling  to  the  last  one’s  need, 

Some  song  thrills  deeply  ev’ry  woodbird’s  heart, 

Some  dew-soft  incense  haloes  each  true  deed. 

Some  azure-winged  Hope  with  starry  gaze, 

Floats  viewless  near,  when  joy  begins  to  wane; 

Some  lustrous  tint  through  each  tear-prism  gleams, 
Some  peace  reposes  ’neath  each  torturing  pain. 


A  Fragment 

Our  fancies  are  but  joys  all  unexprest, 

The  rhythm  of  a  carol  strange  and  sweet. 
Who  would  resign  his  yearning  for  the  best 
The  arts  severe  can  yield?  all  incomplete 
As  is  the  airy  fabric  of  our  dream, 

Yet  bask  we  in  its  rose-encolored  gleam. 

Take  from  our  life  its  palpitating  hope, 
Rob  it  of  those  mysterious  undertones, 

That  like  the  chanting  angels,  fondly  grope 
Toward  harmonies  celestial,  stifle  moans 

43 


That,  uttered  in  our  longing,  half  reveal 

The  soul’s  deep  struggles  and  far  more  conceal, — 

And  what  is  left  us?  What  avails  the  lute 
When  the  sweet  player’s  fingers  all  are  cold? 

So  would  it  be  with  us  if  Hope  were  mute, 

No  longer  with  her  magic  to  unfold 

Our  dreams’  aerial  splendor  and  transform 

Their  misty  shadows  to  a  radiance  warm. 

Then  let  us,  ever  watching  rev’rently, 

Quaff  the  pure  incense  of  the  morning  star, 

Heed  the  impassioned  skylark’s  reverie, 

Soaring  and  singing  in  the  ether  far; 

And  bathe  our  life  each  hour  in  beauty  new, 

By  guarding  fresh  the  soul’s  impearled  dew. 


Stab,  Song 

O  sailing  stars ! 

Through  pearly  bars 
Of  fleecy  cloudlets  fair, 
With  liquid  gleam, 

Ye  drift, — a  dream 
Of  beauty  in  the  air. 

Ye  sailing  stars! 

Bright  silver  cars, 

Moving  with  rhythmic  pace, 
Can  spirits  rare 
Float  through  the  air, 

With  more  majestic  grace? 

O  stars  so  calm! 

Were  life  a  psahn 
Attuned  to  harmony, 

44 


On  wings  of  light, 

To  some  blest  height 
As  calm,  our  souls  would  flee. 


Easter  Carol 

Lilies  swinging  censers  fair, 

In  the  dreamy  Spring-tide  air, 
Purer  seem  your  bells  this  morn: 
Roses  on  the  dewy  lawn, 

Tinted  with  the  hues  of  dawn, 

Ye  are  sweeter:  flow’rets  say, 

Why  are  ye  so  rare  to-day? 

Oh  why,  oh  why! 

Robin,  tender  robin,  say, 

Why  art  thou  so  glad  to-day? 
Never  has  thy  note  to  me 
Borne  beneath  its  melody, 

Such  inspiring  mystery. 

Warbling  robin,  softly  say, 

Why  art  thou  so  glad  to-day? 

Oh  why,  oh  why ! 

Silver-throated  lark,  reply ! 

Far  off  in  the  azure  sky, 

Wherefore  does  that  song  of  thine, 
Soaring  in  a  strain  divine, 
Strangely  thrill  this  soul  of  mine? 
Fluting  lark,  reply,  reply ! 

Is’t  to  bear  my  soul  on  high? 

On  high,  on  high! 

Questioner!  the  birds  reply, 

Christ  ascends  to-day  on  high. 
From  the  sadness  and  the  gloom, 
From  the  shadows  of  the  tomb. 

45 


For  His  glory  sweeter  bloom 
Rose  and  lily ;  this  is  why 
Strains  divine  thrill  through  the  sky, 
’Tis  why,  ’tis  why ! 

Pure  as  is  the  lily’s  bowl, 

List’ner !  ever  be  thy  soul ! 

Fragrant  as  the  rose  thy  life, 
Kindliness  o’ercoming  strife; 

Jesus’  vict’ry  gives  new  life. 

Then  uplift  thy  drooping  brow, 

Join  in  Nature’s  gladness  now! 
Sing  now,  sing  now! 

Yes!  the  Easter-tide  is  fair, 

Strains  triumphant  flood  the  air; 

So  bright  garlands  we  entwine 
For  the  Son  of  God  Divine. 

Then  rejoice,  O  soul  of  mine! 

With  the  chanting  birds  and  flow’rs, 
Consecrate  these  blessed  hours, 
Rejoice!  rejoice! 


An  Ideal 

An  evanescent  hue  whose  pearly  gleam 
Transfigures  all  it  glows  upon,  a  dream 
Of  forms  aerial,  chiseled  so  fair 
That  angel  fingers  must  have  fingered  there. 

A  scent  as  of  celestial  roses  blown 
From  consecrated  meadows,  many  a  tone 
Sublime  in  ecstasy  and  rev’rent  hush, 

An  exaltation  that  no  wrong  can  crush. 

46 


A  hint  of  harmonies  in  life’s  strange  psalm, 

A  sense  of  Heaven’s  completeness,  all  its  calm ; 
A  shining  goal  suffused  with  radiant  light, — 
Such  the  Ideal  that  lures  from  height  to  height. 


The  Hermit  and  the  Soul 

The  hermit  in  his  cave  beside  the  sea, 

In  mood  contemplative,  the  mystery, — 

Ay,  all  the  wondrous  meaning  fain  would  trace 
Of  swinging  stars  sphered  in  unfathomed  space. 

The  soul  in  life’s  dim  cave  beside  the  sea, 

Is  pond’ring  likewise  all  the  mystery, 

The  solemn  something  that  the  years  unfold, 

A  riddle  never  new,  yet  never  old. 

Ah !  musing  hermit,  wake  from  out  thy  dreams ! 
See  ’mid  the  stars  refulgent,  one  that  streams 
With  sheen  sublime;  the  shepherds,  ages  gone, 
Saw  it  illume  the  plain  one  frosty  mom. 

Ah!  restless  soul,  immortal  dow’r  is  thine! 

Christ  came  to  earth,  the  Son  of  God  Divine, 
To  solve  the  myst’ry:  therefore  cease  thy  strife, 
Light  from  the  cross  leads  on  to  endless  life. 


Compensation 

How  the  majestic  stellar  lights  of  Heav’n 

Gliding  in  rhythm  through  the  aisles  of  space, 
Shed  cheering  radiance  on  the  waiting  earth, 

When  all  day  long  the  Sun  has  hid  his  face. 

47 


How  glowed!  the  painter’s  soul  with  rapture  mute, 
When  after  weary  toil  and  vague  unrest, 

The  Head  Divine  upon  his  vision  broke, 

And  rare  contentment  closed  a  loving  quest. 

Men  who  dare  mighty  deeds  with  dauntless  will, 

Oft  meet  defeat,  not  glorious  victory; 

But  the  uplifting  souls  to  undreamed  heights, 

May  not  of  poorest  laurels  worthy  be. 

There  is  a  heroism  bom  of  pain, 

Whose  recompense  in  noble  impulse  lies ; 

And  sometimes  tears  that  e’en  from  grief  did  flow, 
Are  changed  to  joy-drops  in  pathetic  eyes. 

From  out  the  din  of  mighty  orchestras, 

The  sweetest,  purest  tones  are  oft  evolved; 

So  from  the  discord  of  our  restless  lives, 

May  come  sweet  harmony  when  all  is  solved. 


A  Vision  of  Moonlight 

O  silver  splendor,  marvelous ! 

Transfigured  is  the  rare  blue  sky, 
Where  cloudlets  crowned  with  amber  mist, 
Glide  to  a  whispered  music  by. 

What  seem  they,  circling  round  the  spheres, 
Swans  that  majestically  sway? 

Or  weird  white  ships  far  out  at  sea, 

With  lamps  hung  up  to  light  the  way? 

Or  are  they  rather,  like  the  bright, 

Fantastic  wreaths  of  feathery  spray, 
Revealing  gleams  of  ringlets  gold, 

Tossed  by  the  mermaids  in  their  play? 
48 


A  pearly  shimmer  lies  within 

The  rose’s  petals  folded  up; 

Shy  lilies  peep  through  river-reeds, 

With  liquid  sweetness  in  their  cup. 

A  fleecy,  opal-tinted  veil 

Hangs  on  the  waters  sleeping  calm; 

Fountains  of  rainbow  sheen  fling  high 
Their  cadence  mellowed  to  a  psalm. 

As  hope  upspringing  in  the  breast 
Irradiates  the  human  face, 

E’en  so  the  moonlight’s  mystic  glow 

Sheds  o’er  all  things  unwonted  grace. 

The  soul  is  nobler  for  great  thoughts, 

The  heart  is  richer  for  love’s  boon, 

The  flowers  are  brighter  for  the  dew, 

The  sky  is  rarer  for  the  moon. 

O  solemn  silence!  do  the  leaves 

Stop  rustling  to  enjoy  the  scene? 

Do  waves,  all  tremulous  with  sound, 

Pause  to  adore,  their  hymns  between? 

O  tranquil  moonlight!  as  some  strains 
Suggest  a  master-spirit’s  song, 

Thy  beauty  pure,  impalpable, 

Must  to  celestial  spheres  belong. 

O  glory  royal,  marvelous ! 

Thou  may’st  perhaps  the  shadow  be 

Of  glory  all-surpassing,  that 

Streams  from  God’s  throne  eternally. 


49 


Sea  Cadences 


Many  are  thy  tones,  O  Ocean, 

Filling  us  with  strange  emotion 
As  we  hear  the  murmurs  wild; 

In  their  weird  and  solemn  power, 

Thou  dost  send  them  ev’ry  hour 
To  thy  yearning,  list’ning  child. 

Like  a  voice  subdued  and  tragic, 

Many  of  thy  songs  bring  magic, 

Others  to  us  hoarsely  call; 

Some  are  sweet  and  fraught  with  gladness, 
Some  have  strains  akin  to  sadness, 

Yet  we  prize  and  love  them  all. 

In  the  heart  nigh  crushed  with  sorrow, 
Dreading  the  unknown  to-morrow, 

Wishing  past  the  drear  to-day, 

In  the  soul  its  burden  bearing 
While  the  lip  a  smile  is  wearing, 

They  have  waked  an  answering  lay. 

Thou  hast  psalms  of  glad  thanksgiving, 
Choral  anthems  for  the  living, 

Dirges  for  the  silent  throng; 

For  the  beautiful  who,  lying 
Where  the  mermaids  low  are  sighing, 
Nevermore  shall  join  thy  song. 

There  is  freedom  in  thy  dashing 
As  thy  waves  the  rocks  are  lashing, 

Singing  loud  their  mad  refrain; 

Of  unrest  the  chords  are  telling, 

And  from  many  a  soul’s  depth  welling, 
Comes  an  echo  to  the  strain. 

50 


Like  some  lone  heart’s  plaintive  throbbing, 
Leap  the  billows,  wildly  sobbing, 

Flinging  to  the  pulseless  air, — 

Now,  a  cadence  hushed  and  calming, 
Now,  a  peal  fierce  and  alarming, 

Now  a  wail  of  deep  despair. 

As  the  sad  mysterious  surges 
Chant  their  melancholy  dirges, 

In  a  whisper  ne’er  repressed, 

So  within  the  realm  of  feeling, 

Hopes  and  longings  softly  stealing. 
Moan  forever  unexpressed. 

When  thy  sweetly  chiming  chorus 
Throws  its  fascination  o’er  us, 

We  would  fain  translate  it  all; 

But  in  vain  is  e’en  our  trying, 

For  thy  notes  are  never-dying, 

And  they  baffle  as  they  fall. 

Soft  thy  hymns  of  awed  devotion 
Float  on  waves  of  ceaseless  motion, 

To  the  throne  of  God  above. 

Many  are  thy  tones,  O  Ocean, 

Filling  us  with  strange  emotion, 

Tuning  souls  to  praise  and  love. 


A  Thought  on  Lake  Ontario 

The  lucent  lake  was  lit  with  sheen, 

Shining  the  crested  waves  between, 

And  through  the  purpling  air 

The  young  birds  trilled  their  lightsome  lays, 
To  join  the  hymn  of  Nature’s  praise, 

And  earth  was  passing  fair. 

51 


The  summer  sky  was  liquid  blue, 

The  lake’s  deep  gleam,  a  sapphire  hue 
Of  gem-like  radiance  rare; 

It  seemed  a  quiet  dream  of  rest, 

The  billows  on  its  mighty  breast 
Swayed  in  accordant  prayer. 

I  deem  Apollo  ne’er  had  seen 

More  wondrous  depths  of  glist’ning  sheen, 

Than  thine,  O  dreamy  lake! 

Nor  has  his  lyre  swept  the  deep, 

Wherein  more  magic  shadows  sleep, 
Than  those  thy  ripples  wake. 

No  Triton  in  the  rosy  dawn, 

Blew  sweeter  music  on  his  horn, 

Than  thy  soft  melody; 

No  Nereid  seeking  ocean  caves, 

Blew  lighter  foam  across  the  waves 
Of  the  impassioned  sea. 

When  glist’ning  in  the  sunset-rose 
Thy  tinted  waves  suggest  repose, 

All  troubled  yearnings  cease; 

When  life  is  discord  and  unrest, 

We  come  to  seek  upon  thy  breast, 

A  hint  of  perfect  peace. 


Sky  Picture 

Through  pearly  deeps  of  sky,  cloud-mountains  rose 
Amid  the  haze,  a  land  of  tinted  snows ; 

A  dream  of  beauty  where  the  palest  gold 
And  rarest  azure  did  their  bloom  unfold. 

It  was  a  vision  fair,  set  in  the  air, 

Where  form  and  color  kissed  through  violet  mist. 

52 


Hymn  to  the  Thousand  Islands 

0  islets  green,  Nature’s  immortal  gems, 

Ye  smile — a  thought  of  God — -rare  diadems 
Framed  in  majestic  waters!  Here  and  there 
Ye  sparkle,  tiny  emeralds,  from  the  air 
Dropped  by  chaste  >angel  fingers  in  the  deep. 
Were  ye,  when  first  Creation  woke  from  sleep, 

An  anthem  sung  at  sunrise  to  the  Light, 

Like  Memnon’s  statue  at  the  dazzling  sight? 
Dotting  the  placid  waters,  marvels  ye, 

A  masterpiece  of  sculptured  scenery ! 

Ye  are  a  fragment  of  the  mighty  plan, 

Linking  in  rhythm  divine  Nature  and  man. 

Ye  are  a  cadence  of  perpetual  praise 

To  Him  who  guards  the  soul  through  endless  days. 


On  the  Rapids  of  the  St.  Lawrence 

The  gurgling  waters  foam  and  play, 

And  whirl  and  dash  the  live-long  day 
In  jets  of  spray. 

They  roll  and  dance,  and  laugh  and  sing, 
They  are  forever  on  the  wing, 

A  restless  thing! 

What  tale  of  pathos  do  they  tell, 

As  onward  they  tumultuous  swell, — 

Is  it  a  knell, 

A  lay  of  love,  or  joy  or  woe, 

Enacted  in  the  Ions  aso? 

We  cannot  know! 

The  emerald  waters  rage  and  boil, 

And  madly  whirl  in  wild  turmoil, 
Unending  toil 


53 


Is  theirs :  they  hint  of  strange  unrest, 
The  foamy  waves  upon  their  breast 
Seem  sore  distrest. 

They  leap  and  toss  their  mad  caps  high, 
They  rave  and  plunge  and  sadly  sigh; 

Yet  to  the  sky 

Their  weird  antiphonies  ascend, 

And  with  celestial  anthems  blend, 

As  up  they  wend. 


Voices  of  the  Rain 

Hear  the  dreary,  dreary  rain, 

Beating  ’gainst  the  window  pane ! 

Causing  little  ones  to  shiver, 

Causing  aged  forms  to  wither, 

Murm’ring  through  the  dying  ember, 
Making  fireless  homes  more  somber. 

O  the  dreary,  dreary  rain ! 

Hear  the  cheerful,  cheerful  rain, 

Laughing  through  the  golden  grain ! 
Waking  cowslips  in  the  meadow 
Which  the  stately  oaks  o’ershadow; 
Fanning  soft  the  fainting  flowers 
That  have  drooped  their  heads  for  hours. 
O  the  cheerful,  cheerful  rain ! 

Hear  the  tearful,  tearful  rain 
Sobbing  o’er  the  battle-plain ! 

Where  the  warrior  fought  in  glory, 

Where  death  closed  life’s  tangled  story. 
Teardrops  kiss  his  matted  tresses, 

Tears,  instead  of  love’s  caresses. 

0  the  tearful,  tearful  rain ! 

54 


Hear  the  music  of  the  rain, 

In  the  brook  and  stormy  main ! 

On  the  roof  it  softly  patters, 

Tones  concordant  far  it  scatters. 
Children  tucked  away  to  slumber, 

Hear  its  notes  and  count  their  number. 
Pretty  music  of  the  rain ! 

Hear  the  solemn,  solemn  rain. 

Moaning  o’er  the  burial  plain ! 
Chanting  low  a  dirge,  and  sighing 
For  the  loved  so  missed  in  dying. 

When  above  them  flowers  are  paling, 
Hear  its  sad,  monot’nous  wailing. 

O  the  solemn,  solemn  rain ! 


Oue  Task 

If  we  could  know  the  mystery 

Hid  in  the  skylark’s  wondrous  song, 

If  we  could  hear  the  dulcet  psalms 

The  sheeny  stars  have  sung  so  long, — 
We  yet  must  turn  to  other  sounds, 

To  human  voices  oft  in  pain ; 

To  dissonance  which  should  be  tuned 
To  truest  harmony  again. 

We  cannot  know,  O  fluting  lark. 

What  lent  thy  song  its  ecstasy ; 

We  yearn,  in  meditative  mood, 

To  fathom  all  the  mystery 
Of  Nature’s  tireless  orchestra. 

Ay!  but  that  joy  we  can  forego, 

For  there  is  need  of  list’ning  ears 

Where  other  voices  charm  us.  So, 

55 


With  vision  clear  and  purpose  pure, 

Humanity’s  broad  scheme  we’ll  trace; 
A  wrong  to  right,  a  sob  to  hush, 

To  see  a  brother  in  each  face 
That  lifts  itself  toward  God’s  blue  dome 
In  suppliant  hope, — thus  life  expands 
To  sweet  fruition,  till  the  waves 

Of  Time  are  lulled  on  golden  sands. 


Echo  Reverie 

(At  Echo  Lake,  White  Mountains.) 

Along  the  lake  the  bugle  rings, 

And  hark!  what  harmony  of  sound 
Breaks  through  the  mountains :  silv’ry  clear 
The  chorus  is  diffused  around. 

It  multiplies  from  cliff  to  cliff, 

A  weird  antiphony,  so  sweet 
The  magic  tones,  the  heart  throbs  high, 
Entranced  with  unison  complete. 

Ay,  listen!  now  it  steals  again: 

From  peak  to  peak  the  music  rings, 
Wave  upon  wave;  until  the  soul 

Thrilled  and  subdued,  in  rapture  sings. 
One  echo  wakes,  it  dies  away ; 

Soft,  softer,  hushed,  till  in  a  dream 
Of  ecstasy  divine  we  muse, 

Floating  adown  the  peaceful  stream. 


O  holy  echo!  sweet  and  clear, 

Thou  tell’st  of  the  Creator’s  hand 
That  swung  the  singing  planets  there 
In  distant  orbits,  when  were  planned 
56 


These  mountains :  thou  dost  but  repeat 
Some  fragment  of  the  harmony 
The  morning  stars  together  sang; 

O  wondrous,  echoing  mystery ! 


Lines  Written  on  a  Farewell  View  of  the  Fran¬ 
conia  Mountains  At  Twilight 

Blue  mists  surround  the  mountains  now, 

In  shadowy  splendor  slowly  fades 
Their  perfect  outline;  each  pure  brow 
Is  bathed  in  mystery ;  the  shades 
Of  pensive  twilight  gather  round, 

The  timid  stars  forbear  awhile 
To  lift  their  misty  curtain;  sound 

Thy  lyre,  O  soul!  ’neath  Nature’s  smile. 


The  Coming  of  Spring 

The  buds  from  winter’s  frost-work  lift 
Their  dainty  heads ;  a  golden  rift 
Of  sunshine  from  the  misty  space 
Of  Cloudland  comes  apace. 

And  we  are  sealed  in  dreams  to-day. 

Look!  fair  Spring  beckons!  wherefore  stay? 
Deep  in  the  forest’s  mystery, 

Strange  visions  we  would  see. 

The  young  bird  twitters  on  his  nest; 

His  tender  notes  so  long  represt, 

Soar  to  the  ether,  clear  and  calm, 

A  pure,  exultant  psalm. 

57 


The  youth  charmed!  by  the  whisp’ring  leaves, 
Tells  life’s  sweet  secret  ’neath  the  eaves, 

And  finds  more  fair  than  sunset  skies 
The  Springtime  in  her  eyes. 

What  colors  deck  the  woodland  shade! 

What  airy  pencilings !  the  glade 
Is  rich  with  lily-bells  whose  glow 
Seems  borrowed  from  the  snow. 

She  comes  fair  Spring,  with  rhythmic  pace! 
Say,  have  you  looked  her  in  the  face? 

Her  glance  is  ecstasy,  her  smile 
All  sorrow  can  beguile. 

In  reveries  almost  divine, 

What  visions  bright  before  us  shine! 

Lo !  erst  we  yearned :  we  see  fulfilled 
The  fantasies  we  willed. 

She  comes  our  chant  of  praise  to  hear, 

Sweet,  airy  Spring,  and  lingers  near; 

Without  her  dreams,  her  nameless  hope, 

How  sadly  would  we  grope! 

We  raise  our  heads,  our  hearts  elate 
Meanwhile,  and  fit  to  toy  with  fate. 

How  can  life’s  changes  e’er  distress 
While  clasped  in  Spring’s  caress. 


Failure 

What  is  failure?  When  the  maiden 
Pensive,  reading  from  the  page, 
Breathes  the  crushed  roseleaf’s  fragrance 
And  far  more  than  counsel  sage 
58 


Does  its  subtle  odor  woo  her 

On  to  happy  fields  of  light, 
Where  love’s  tremulous  requirements 
All  are  reconciled  quite, — 


Has  the  sweet  rose  missed  its  mission, 
With  its  petals  rudely  torn? 
Nay !  its  perfume  brought  a  vision, 
Fairer  than  the  fairest  morn, 


To  the  dreaming  maiden :  therefore 

Grieve  not  rose,  thy  doom  was  best; 
Murmur  not  to  carry  to  her, 

After  tumult,  hints  of  rest. 


What  is  failure?  When  the  poet 

Hears  his  verses  harshly  scorned, 
Can  he  yet  forget  the  rapture, 

That  upon  his  spirit  dawned, — 


As  the  cadences  so  holy 

Lulled  his  senses  in  a  trance, 

And  aerial  fingers  dainty 

Swept  his  lyre?  Ay,  perchance 

He  but  loves  the  strains  the  better — 

Tender  nurslings  from  the  skies — 
And  although  no  ruth  awaits  him, 

Newer  glory  fills  his  eyes. 


What  is  failure?  Ah!  we  know  not! 

’Tis  but  an  indiff’rent  thing; 
Sometimes  to  unrest  an  impulse, 

Sometimes  angels  on  the  wing. 

59 


Calling  us  to  finer  raptures, 

Chanting  for  us  nobler  strains, 
From  the  world’s  dissatisfaction 

Gleaning  for  us  priceless  gains. 


The  Triple  Benison 

Come  to  guard  us,  come  to  bless  us, 
Holy,  mystic  sisters  three ! 

On  our  bowed  heads  pour  a  chrism, 
Daughters  of  the  Deity. 

Crown  us  with  your  triple  chaplet, 

Roses  red  and  lilies  fair, 

Dark  green  leaves  entwined  around  them, 
Fragrant  with  May’s  tender  air. 

We  are  waitings — suppliants  needy — 
For  your  beauteous  three-fold  gift, 

That  to  heights  of  calm  completeness 
Our  beseeching  souls  can  lift. 

How  can  we  without  your  favor 

Make  of  life  what  it  should  be? 

Come  then,  guard1  us,  aid  and  bless  us, 
Daughters  of  the  Deity. 

Be  our  souls  as  pure  and  stainless, 
Blending  all  the  perfect  hues, 

Sacred  Faith,  as  is  the  color 

We  shall  ever  for  thee  choose. 

Be  our  paths  as  green  with  verdure, 
Yearning  Hope,  as  thine  must  be; 

And  our  lives  as  flushed  with  radiance, 
As  thine,  O  blessed  Charity! 

60 


Verses  to  My  Heart’s-Sister 

We’ve  traveled  long  together, 

O  sister  of  my  heart, 

Since  first  as  little  children 

All  buoyant,  we  did  start 
Upon  Life’s  checkered  pathway, 

Nor  dreamed  of  aught  save  joy; 
But  ah!  To-day  can  tell  us 
Naught  is  without  alloy. 

Rememb’rest  thou  the  gambols 
Of  those  sweet,  early  days, 

When  siren  Fancy  showed  us 

Our  dreams  through  golden  haze? 
Ah,  well  thou  dost  remember 

The  mirth  we  then  did  share, 

The  sports,  the  tasks,  the  music, 

The  all-embracing  prayer. 

Somehow  my  own  sweet  sister, 

Our  heart-strings  early  twined ; 
Some  rare  bond  of  affection 

Of  tastes  and  aims  combined. 

Made  us,  e’en  in  our  Springtime, 
Soul-sisters  fond  and  leal ; 

And  how  that  love  has  strengthened 
The  years  can  well  reveal. 

We’ve  seen  our  loved  ones  vanish 
Far  from  our  yearning  gaze, 

Into  the  peace  of  Heaven. 

O  those  sad,  saddest  days, 

When  we  two  clung  together. 

So  lonely  and  forlorn, 

With  our  crushed  hearts  all  quiv’ring, 
All  bruised,  and  scarred  and  torn. 

61 


So  nearer  clung  we,  sister, 

And  loved  each  other  more; 
The  tendrils  of  our  natures 

Twined  closer  than  before. 
We  could  speak  to  no  other 

Of  those  sweet,  holy  things, 
So  tender  yet  so  nameless, 

Which  soiTow  often  brings. 


The  troubles  that  have  thickened 
Around  our  daily  path, 

We’ve  borne  together,  sister, 

And  oft  when  courage  hath 
Grown  feeble,  and  the  future 

Was  dark  with  naught  of  cheer, 
Could  one  have  faced  the  conflict 
Without  the  other  near? 


And  sister,  dear  Heart’s-Sister, 

When  all  the  mystery 
Of  this  strange  life  is  ended 
In  Immortality, 

We’ll  love  each  other  dearly 
As  now  we  do,  and  more; 

For  sacred  things  in  Heaven 
Grow  richer  than  before. 

And  shall  not  those  sweet  loved  ones 
Missed  here  so  long!  so  long! 
Join  with  us  in  the  music 

Of  an  all-perfect  song? 

We  feel  a  gladder  cadence 

Will  thrill  their  rapt’rous  strain, 
When  we  are  with  them,  sister, 

All,  ne’er  to  part  again  ! 

62 


So  now  as  here  we  linger, 

May  ours  be  happy  days ! 

O  generous-hearted  sister, 

In  all  Life’s  winding  ways 
May  we  have  joy  together! 

And  this  I  fondly  pray, — 

God  bless  thee,  dear  Heart’s-Sister ! 
Forever  and  for  aye! 


Among  the  Berkshire  Hills 

The  hills  in  emerald  robes  of  richest  dye, 

Decked  e’en  most  regally,  slope  to  the  sky 
In  daintiest  curves  and  many  a  lakelet  calm 
Sleeps  in  the  vale  below,  while  like  a  psalm 
The  silv’ry  waters  murmur;  all  around 
Majestic  silence  reigns,  save  when  the  sound 
Of  some  fair  warbler  stirs  the  air  with  song, 
Sweet  as  if  they  to  Heav’n’s  isles  did  belong. 

Yea,  in  eternal  grandeur  stand  the  hills 
Wrapped  oft  in  misty  veils  of  blue;  the  rills 
Trickle  in  motion  musical,  meanwhile 
The  landscape  shimmers  golden  ’neath  the  smile 
Of  Nature  in  her  kindest  mood;  she  seems 
Benignant  to  these  peaceful  slopes ;  rich  gleams 
Of  sunshine  flicker  o’er  them,  shadows  chase 
In  shapes  fantastic  and  with  rarest  grace, 

The  light  across  these  mountains ;  far  and  near, 
Like  to  a  silver  ribbon  winding  clear, 

The  Housatonic  mirrors  back  the  skies, 

And  through  the  quiet  meadows  gently  hies 
To  join  the  music  of  the  solemn  band, 

Played  by  the  sea.  Touched  by  th’  enchanted  wand 
Of  magic  beauty  lies  fair  Stockb ridge  Bowl, — 

A  lake  whose  calm  brings  rest  within  the  soul. 

63 


There  Nature  comes  to  us  with  ev’ry  phase 
Of  loveliness,  and  charms  away  our  days, 

Until  refreshed  the  wearied  spirit  grows, 

Lulled  to  unwonted  harmony  nor  knows 
It  aught  of  restlessness  amid  such  peace; 

Unrest  and  care  have  there  a  swift  release: 

Nature  has  vesture  of  a  thousand  hues, — 

Skies  sapphire  blue,  bright  waters,  pearly  dews ; 

Her  panorama  changes  with  the  hours. 

’Twas  mom:  above  the  hills  shell- tinted  flow’rs 
Were  strewn  along  the  pathway  of  the  sun, 

Just  peeping  o’er  the  slopes,  his  race  begun. 

’Twas  noon :  the  leaves  were  dancing  in  the  breeze ; 
Clouds  clad  in  sheeny  tissues,  kissed  the  trees, 
Crowning  the  summits,  while  to  the  glad  gaze 
Stretched  out  a  rare  perspective  dim  with  haze. 

And  o’er  the  hills  one  fair  cloud  calmly  slept, 

Fair  as  an  angel  dreaming;  blue  mists  crept 
In  sinuous  curves  above  the  stately  heights, 

Which  gleamed  resplendent  in  the  shifting  lights. 
’Twas  sunset  when  a  charm  the  earth  enshrouds ; 

A  setting  exquisite  of  tinted  clouds 
Illumined  changing  scenes  of  mount  and  glade ; 

And  all  the  majesty  of  light  and  shade 
Bewildered  with  its  beauty,  while  afar 
Looked  o’er  the  heights  one  silver  vesper  star. 

And  soon  the  moonlight  touched  the  hills  with  sheen, 
Bathed  them  in  mystery  which  Night’s  chaste  queen 
Dispels  around  her.  Thus  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  enchanted  gleams  that  Nature  throws 
O’er  mountain,  valley,  grove  and  laughing  rills, 

We  see  in  regal  beauty  ’mid  these  hills. 

Through  colonnades  of  pines  the  vistas  green 
Invite  the  gaze  to  linger,  while  between 
The  shadows  slant,  and  through  the  golden  air 
Each  scene  dissolves  into  one  still  more  fair. 

All  this  calm  loveliness  can  but  enthrall. 

64 


We  dream  amid  these  solitudes,  and  all 
Th’  unuttered  praise  of  many  a  soul  ascends 
In  thanks  to  Him  who  here  such  glory  sends. 


Evening  Peayee 

Father  of  Love! 

We  leave  our  souls  with  Thee! 

Oh!  may  Thy  Holy  Spirit  to  us  be 
A  peaceful  Dove! 

Now  when  day’s  strife 
And  bitterness  are  o’er, 

Oh!  in  our  hearts  all  bruised  gently  pour 
The  dew  of  life. 

So  as  the  rose — 

Though  fading  on  the  stem — 

Awakes  to  blush  when  morning’s  lustrous  gem 
Upon  it  glows  ; — 

May  we  awake, 

Soothed  by  Thy  priceless  balm, 

To  chant  with  grateful  hearts  our  morning  psalm, 
And  blessings  take. 

Or  let  it  be, 

That  where  the  palm  trees  rise, 

And  crystal  streams  flow,  we  uplift  our  eyes 
To  Thee! — to  Thee! 


Reteospection 

What  do  the  long  years  bring  us, 
The  weary,  restless  years? 
Hopes,  dreams  unrealized,  yet  balm 
To  stay  the  bitt’rest  tears. 

65 


Some  gold  tint  in  the  prism, 

Some  kind  words  softly  said, 
Some  hint  of  love  most  tender 

E’en  when  glad  joy  has  fled. 

Not  grief  perchance,  nor  sorrow, 

And  yet  a  vague  unrest 
Will  mingle  with  our  musings, 

A  pang  all  unexpressed. 

The  minstrel’s  song  though  gladsome, 
Enfolds  a  minor  strain ; 

Each  throbbing  joy  brings  with  it 
Inevitable  pain. 

For  through  the  cleansing  fires 
Our  shrinking  souls  must  go, 
Ere  we  the  wholesome  lesson 
Of  life  can  really  know. 

Then  let  us  be  undaunted, 

Leaving  to  God  the  end, 
Rememb’ring,  more  than  sparrows, 
We  find  in  Christ,  a  friend. 


At  Christmas-tide 

Gleamed  a  resplendent  star 
Over  the  hillsides  far, 

While  shepherds  watched  by  night 
On  the  peaceful  height. 

Softly  the  gold-light  fell 
Over  the  vale  and  dell, 

While  angels  warbled  clear 
“  Lo !  the  Christ-child’s  here !  ” 

66 


Wise  men  brought  there  with  them, 
Sweet  Child  of  Bethlehem, 

Rare  gifts  to  offer  Thee, 

For  Thou  mad’st  them  free. 

“  Peace !  ”  list  the  magic  word 
Now  through  the  ages  heard ; 

“  Good-will !  ”  it  echoes  still 
With  the  olden  thrill. 

Sweet  Child  in  mercy  sent, 

Jesus,  grant  us  content. 

Evermore  may  we  be 
Near  to  truth  and  Thee! 


Broken  Heart 

Ah  blow !  thou  art  the  last,  the  last ! 

Grief  cannot  harm  me  any  more. 
I’m  weary  now  that  hope  is  past, 

My  heart  is  broken  at  the  core, 
Ay,  at  the  core. 

Then  call  me  henceforth,  Broken  Heart 
It  is  the  name  most  meet  for  woe. 
Since  I  can  ne’er  with  Sorrow  part, 

I  care  no  other  name  to  know. 

Ah!  call  me  so. 

I  never  thought  my  life  would  be 
All  poisoned  by  a  fatal  dart, 

But  now  no  joy  can  rescue  me. 

Yes!  call  me  ever  Broken  Heart, 
Sad  Broken  Heart. 

67 


Jesus  says,  “Broken  Heart  be  mine; 

I’ll  take  thee,  shattered  as  thou  art. 

Come  rest  upon  my  Love  Divine, 

Come  weary,  weary  Broken  Heart, 

Never  to  part. 

“  The  world  has  wounded,  Heaven  will  not; 

Life  sore  has  pricked  thee,  Broken  Heart, 
Her  page  is  dark  with  many  a  blot. 

Alas !  thy  bitt’rest  tears  will  start, 

Poor  Broken  Heart! 

“  Then  come,  O  wherefore  wouldst  thou  wait? 
Carry  thy  cross  and  follow  on. 

I  am  thy  portion,  early,  late; 

Haste  Broken  Heart,  this  very  morn, 
This  happy  mom. 

“  Sweet  peace  I  give  thee,  Broken  Heart, 

’Twill  be  a  cure  for  ev’ry  woe. 

None  e’er  has  loved  thee,  Broken  Heart, 

As  I  have  loved  thee  long  ago, 

Ah  no !  ah  no ! 

“Does  earth  still  weave  her  subtle  charm? 

Oh!  will  thou  not  with  Sorrow  part 
For  soothing,  everlasting  balm? 

Do  I  suffice  thee,  Broken  Heart? 

Speak,  Broken  Heart !  ” 


“  Yes,  Jesus,  Thou  art  all  I  need, 

I’ll  gladly  rise  and  follow  Thee. 

Life  sore  has  pricked  me,  made  me  bleed, 
But  now  Thy  child  I  am  to  be, 

Yes !  Thine  to  be.” 


68 


Ay,  dearest  child,  my  blood  for  thee 

Will  heal  thy  heart’s  poor  broken  core 
My  blood  that  floweth  full  and  free, 

Will  in  thy  soul  rich  blessings  pour, 
Forevermore ! 


Then  hold  my  hand,  dear  Healed  Heart ! 

I’ll  lead  thee  to  thy  home  and  then 
We  never,  nevermore  shall  part.” 

“  O  Jesus,  hear  my  soul’s  Amen, 
Amen,  Amen !  ” 


Prayer 

O  Christ,  who  in  Gethsemane 

Didst  all  alone  in  anguish  pray, 

“  Father,  if  it  be  possible, 

Let  this  cup,  Father,  pass  away,” — 


O  holy  Christ,  who  rose  serene, 
Sublime  in  victory  to  cry, 
“Not  as  I  will,  but  as  Thou  wilt!” 
Let  us  in  faith  on  Thee  rely. 


Did  not  the  stars  in  far  off  space, 

Upon  their  silver  axes  pause 
To  hear  those  words?  Was  not  the  air 

Calmed  by  the  myst’ry  and  its  cause? 

O  Christ,  veiled  in  Humanity! 

O  Victor  over  deepest  woe! 

When  we,  like  Thee,  endure  the  pain, 

Let  us,  like  Thee,  submission  know. 

69 


Grant  us  a  vict’ry  like  to  Thine, 

O’er  all  the  storms  that  rage  within. 
Teach  us,  O  Christ,  we  humbly  pray. 

The  trust  that  fain  would  conquer  sin. 

And  when  life’s  discords  all  are  hushed, 
Blended  in  perfect  harmony, 

Call  us,  0  pitying  Son  of  God, 

Take  us,  0  blessed  Christ,  to  Thee! 


Shadow  and  Sunshine 

Poor  heart,  unsatisfied! 

Poor  soul,  trying  and  tried! 
Trying  to  reach  the  goal, 

And  tried  art  thou,  O  soul, 

In  all  thy  ways. 

Seeking  where’er  it  be, 
Something  to  solace  thee; 
Choosing  whatever  part, 

Unfilled  art  thou,  0  heart, 

Through  length  of  days. 

Wherefore  these  shadows  sent? 
Wherefore  these  hours  of  Lent? 
Wherefore  the  rugged  rock, 
The  fire,  the  stumbling  block, 
The  vale  of  tears? 

Earth’s  gilded  pleasures  lure; 
Canst  share  them  and  endure 
True  to  thy  nobler  self, 

Soul,  with  thy  mine  of  wealth, 
For  many  years? 

70 


Listen !  discouraged  heart, 

Loath  with  thj  pain  to  part; 
Hear,  O  sad,  tearful  soul, 

Seeking  the  radiant  goal, 

Christ’s  holy  plea. 

“  Thy  strength  e’en  weakness  is  ; 
Perfect  in  Me  thou  liv’st. 

I  am  the  Way,  the  Truth, 

Come  without  further  proof, 
Come  unto  Me !  ” 

Rest  thou  shalt  find  and  peace, 
And  joys  that  never  cease; 
Light  o’er  the  mountain  comes, 
Voices  from  distant  homes 
Echo  the  song. 

When  most  despondent  ye. 

Louder  the  voice  shall  be; 
Bliss-crowned  the  radiant  goal 
Sought  by  thee,  sorrowing  soul, 
So  long,  so  long! 


Soun  Incense 

As  round  the  rose’s  heart  the  golden  threads 
Of  summer  sunshine  gently  wind  themselves, 
And  deeper,  richer  grows  the  native  tinge, 

More  beauteous  in  its  kindling  loveliness, 

So  round  the  human  heart  unconsciously 
The  tendrils  gold  of  love  entwine  themselves, 
And  make  it  sweeter,  richer,  holier  far 
Than  ’twas  before ;  and  as  on  deep’ning  blooms 
The  gaze  of  man  delights  to  rest  awhile, 

So  on  the  heart  lit  by  love’s  radiant  glow, 

The  angels  look  with  glance  serene  and  pure. 

71 


As  unseen  dews  descend  and  softly  rest, 

Like  to  a  jewel,  upon  each  green  spray, 

And  leave  it  sparkling  with  unwonted  sheen, 

E’en  so  the  unseen  dews  of  sweet  content 
And  holy  consecration,  crystal  beads, 

Of  many  a  lowly  soul  the  shadows  dim 
Illume,  and  like  the  balmy  breath  of  mom, 

Make  it  resplendent  with  the  changing  gleam, 

Of  priceless  jewels, — stars  within  the  soul. 

As  lightly  dripping  rain  the  fragrance  woos, 

Alike  of  blossoms  waking  to  the  sun 
And  blooms  mature,  that  through  the  silent  grove, 
Their  fresh  bath  o’er — rock  in  the  cooling  breeze 
And  make  it  redolent  with  fragrance  rare, 

So  deeds  in  silence  done  and  kind  words  said, 
The  influence  of  a  pure  and  holy  life 
Shed  on  each  pathway  their  aroma  rare. 

As  birds  uplift  their  gorgeous-tinted  wings, 

Rich  as  the  purple  flush  of  autumn  days, 

And  seek  the  mellow  climes  of  orange  bow’rs 
Ere  uncongenial  gales  their  plumage  beat, 

So  from  the  harsh,  forbidding  sons  of  men 
Whose  ears  are  not  attuned  to  catch  her  song, 

The  child  with  spirit  sensitive  and  rapt, 

Turns  lovingly  to  those  whose  sympathy, 

Like  chords  responsive,  catch  the  sweet  refrain, 
And  send  it  throbbing  back,  a  silver  link, 

Uniting  kindred  souls  in  union  blest. 


72 


SONNETS 


To  My  Mother 


(January  1,  1891) 

Sweet  Mother !  rare  in  gifts  of  tenderness ! 

Thou  who  didst  nurse  my  child-life  into  bloom, 

And  for  each  native  grace  made  ample  room 
To  blossom  in  love’s  light, — how  can  we  bless 
The  Power  that  gave  thee  to  us !  In  the  stress 
Of  life’s  great  conflict,  what  could  e’er  illume 
Its  mystic  shadows  and  its  deepest  gloom, 

Like  smiles  and  loving  words  from  thee!  No  less 
Than  widest  sunshine  is  thy  sympathy. 

O  precious  Heart!  so  rich  in  sacrifice, 

And — boon  beyond  compare — supremest  love, 

May  Heaven’s  choicest  blessings  rest  on  thee, 
Rarer  than  jewels  of  the  costliest  price! 

And  Peace  brood  o’er  thy  path  like  calmest  dove 


Life 

Life!  Ay,  what  is  it?  E’en  a  moment  spun 
From  cycles  of  eternity.  And  yet, 

What  wrestling  ’mid  the  fever  and  the  fret 
Of  tangled  purposes  and  hopes  undone ! 
What  affluence  of  love!  What  vict’ries  won 
In  agonies  of  silence,  ere  trust  met 
A  manifold  fulfillment,  and  the  wet, 
Beseeching  eyes  saw  splendors  past  the  sun ! 
What  struggle  in  the  web  of  circumstance, 
And  yearning  in  the  winged  music!  All, 

74 


One  restless  strife  from  fetters  to  be  free ; 
Till,  gathered  to  eternity’s  expanse, 

Is  that  brief  moment  at  the  Father’s  call; 
Life !  Ay,  at  best,  ’tis  but  a  mystery ! 


Aspibation 

We  climb  the  slopes  of  life  with  throbbing  heart, 
And  eager  pulse,  like  children  toward  a  star. 

Sweet  siren  music  cometh  from  afar, 

To  lure  us  on  meanwhile.  Responsive  start 
The  nightingales  to  richer  song  than  Art 
Can  ever  teach.  No  passing  shadows  mar 
Awhile  the  dewy  skies;  no  inner  jar 
Of  conflict  bids  us  with  our  quest  to  part. 

We  see  adown  the  distance,  rainbow-arched, 

What  melting  aisles  of  liquid  light  and  bloom ! 

We  hasten,  tremulous,  with  lips  all  parched, 

And  eyes  wide-stretched,  nor  dream  of  coming  gloom. 
Enough  that  something  heid  almost  divine 
Within  us  ever  stirs.  Can  we  repine? 


Incompleteness 

What  soul  hath  struck  its  need  of  melody, 

From  life’s  strange  instrument  whereon  it  plays?. 
Are  the  aspiring  strains  of  weary  days 
E’er  gathered  in  their  full  intensity, 

Swelling  a  psalm  incomparable,  free 
To  utter  all  their  yearning?  Nay!  the  lays 
Moan  on  inadequately,  for  the  ways 
Of  God  in  shaping  souls  we  may  not  see. 

’Mid  baffled  hopes  we  cry  out  in  our  need, 

And  wrestle  in  the  shadows,  wond’ring  when 
Such  dissonance  can  e’er  be  sweet,  and  how. 

75 


But  soon  the  watching  Father  will  have  freed 

Our  earthly  ears  to  catch  the  music :  then 

The  chrism  of  perfect  peace  shall  bathe  each  brow. 


Self-Mastery 

To  catch  the  spirit  in  its  wayward  flight 
Through  mazes  manifold,  what  task  supreme! 
For  when  to  floods  has  grown  the  quiet  stream, 
Much  human  skill  must  aid  its  rage  to  fight; 

And  when  wild  winds  invade  the  solemn  night, 
Seems  not  man’s  vaunted  power  but  a  dream? 
And  still  more  futile,  ay,  we  e’en  must  deem 
This  quest  to  tame  the  soul,  and  guide  aright 
Its  restless  wanderings, — to  lure  it  back 
To  shoals  of  calm.  Full  many  a  moan  and  sigh 
Attend  the  strife;  till,  effort  merged  in  prayer, 
Oft  uttered,  clung  to — -when  of  strength  the  lack 
Seems  direst — brings  the  answer  to  our  cry: 

A  gift  from  Him  who  lifts  our  ev’ry  care. 


Niobe 

O  Mother-heart!  when  fast  the  arrows  flew, 
Like  blinding  lightning,  smiting  as  they  fell, 
One  after  one,  one  after  one,  what  knell 
Could  fitly  voice  thy  anguish!  Sorrow  grew 
To  throes  intensest,  when  thy  sad  soul  knew 
Thy  youngest,  too,  must  go.  Was  it  not  well, 
Avengers  wroth,  just  one  to  spare?  Ay,  tell 
The  ages  of  soul-struggle  sterner?  Through 
The  flinty  stone,  O  image  of  despair, 

Sad  Niobe,  thy  maddened  grief  did  flow 

76 


In  bitt’rest  tears,  when  all  thy  wailing  prayer 
Was  so  denied.  Alas !  what  weight  of  woe 
Is  prisoned  in  thy  melancholy  eyes! 

What  mother-love  beneath  the  Stoic  lies ! 


The  Two  Musicians 

Love  plays  a  lute,  and  Thought  an  organ  grand. 
These  tones  are  stately,  those  a  restless  strain, 
Seeming  by  cadenced  joy  to  measure  pain, 

And  capture  Fancy  by  the  soft  airs  fanned. 

Thought  sends  his  pagans  thrilling  through  the  land 
The  worshipers  that  bow  before  his  fane 
Find  rest  in  contemplation,  spirit-gain 
In  sweetest  harmonies.  Yon  rapturous  band, 

Kneeling  to  catch  the  music  of  the  lute, 

Have  yearning  in  their  eyes,  yet  something  there 
That  baffles  all  our  reas’ning;  is  it  peace, 

Or  only  glances  with  beseeching  mute? 

Sometimes  it  deepens  into  holy  prayer. 

Enchanted  Love !  thy  music  never  cease ! 


The  Poet’s  Ministrants 

The  smiling  Dawn,  with  diadem  of  dew, 

Brings  sunrise  odors  to  perfume  his  shrine; 
Blithe  Zephyr  fans  him ;  and  soft  moonbeams  twine 
An  aureole  to  crown  him,  of  a  hue, 

Surpassing  fair.  The  stately  stars  renew 
Majestic  measures,  that  he  may  incline 
His  soul  unto  their  sweetness;  whispers  fine 
From  spirit-nymphs  allure  him ;  not  a  few 
The  gifts  chaste  Fancy  and  her  sisters  bring. 
Rare  is  the  lyre  the  Muses  for  him  wrought, 

A  different  meaning  thrills  in  ev’ry  string, 

77 


With  ev’ry  changing  mood  of  life  so  fraught. 
Invoked  by  him,  when  such  the  strains  that  flow, 
How  can  the  poet  e’er  his  song  forego! 


Milton 

O  poet  gifted  with  the  sight  divine! 

To  thee  ’twas  given  Eden’s  groves  to  pace 
With  that  first  pair,  in  whom  the  human  race 
Their  kinship  claim :  and  angels  did  incline — 

Great  Michael,  holy  Gabriel — to  twine 

Their  heavenly  logic,  through  which  thou  couldst  trace 

The  rich  outpourings  of  celestial  grace 

Mingled  with  argument,  around  the  shrine 

Where  thou  didst  linger,  vision-rapt,  intent 

To  catch  the  sacred  mystery  of  Heaven. 

Nor  was  thy  longing  vain:  a  soul  resolved 
To  ponder  truth  supreme  to  thee  was  lent; 

For  thy  not  sightless  eyes  the  veil  was  riv’n, 
Redemption’s  problem  unto  thee  well  solved. 


Shakespeare 

We  wonder  what  the  horoscope  did  show 
When  Shakespeare  came  to  earth.  Were  planets  there, 
Grouped  in  unique  arrangement?  Unaware 
His  age  of  aught  so  marvelous,  when  lo! 

He  speaks!  men  listen!  what  of  joy  or  woe 
Is  not  revealed!  love,  hatred,  carking  care, 

All  quiv’ring  ’neath  his  magic  touch.  The  air 
Is  thick  with  beauteous  elves,  a  dainty  row, 

Anon,  with  droning  witches,  and  e’en  now 
Stalks  gloomy  Hamlet,  bent  on  vengeance  dread. 

One  after  one  they  come,  smiling  or  scarred, 
Wrought  by  that  mind  prismatic  to  which  bow 

78 


All  lesser  minds.  They  by  thee  would  be  fed, 

Poet  incomparable!  Avon’s  Bard! 

Raphael 

Great  Painter!  to  thy  soul  aglow  with  thought, 
Celestial  forms  their  glory  did  reveal. 

Not  unrewarded  wast  thou  left  to  kneel 
At  Beauty’s  sacred  altar;  not  for  naught 
Thy  gift  of  consecration  hadst  thou  brought. 
We  see  thee  pensive,  radiant,  and  there  steal 
Soft  shadows,  mystic  lights ;  th’  angelic  seal 
Is  on  thy  dreamy  brow;  thy  soul  hath  caught 
The  essence  of  the  harmony  it  craved. 

Behold  the  Mother  and  the  Child  Divine! 

What  rapt  repose!  what  majesty  serene! 

Thy  spirit  tuned  to  contemplation,  laved 
In  founts  of  light.  For  thee  we  would  entwine 
The  asphodel  bright  with  celestial  sheen. 


Beethoven 

O  great  tone-master!  low  thy  massive  head 

Droops,  heavy  with  the  thoughts  that  fain  would  weave 

Themselves  in  interlacing  chords,  that  leave 

Sublimest  music.  Inspiration  sped 

On  dainty  pinions  to  thy  natal  bed, 

And  warbling  notes  did  all  the  silence  cleave 

As  for  a  benediction ;  well  believe 

The  votaries  that  hie  where  thou  hast  led, 

In  thy  supreme  endowment.  Who  as  well 
Can  wake  the  Orphic  echoes?  Thou  dost  muse, 

And  harmony,  the  sweetest,  is  evolved. 

In  grave  sonatas  rich  with  surging  swell, 

In  matchless  symphonies — but  thou  couldst  choose — 1 
The  mystery  of  music  thou  hast  solved. 

79 


The  Tireless  Sculptor 


E’en  as  the  sculptor  chisels  patiently 
The  marble’s  jagged  edges,  day  by  day, 

Striving  to  smooth  all  blemishes  away, 

Till — when  from  ev’ry  flaw  the  stone  is  free, 

And  naught  save  perfect  contours  does  he  see — 
Embodied  harmony  and  beauty  may 
Atone  for  all  the  weary  hours’  delay, — 

So  Life,  the  sculptor,  moulds  unceasingly 

The  soul  of  man.  How  often  in  recoil 

The  spirit  shrinks,  nor  can  through  prescience  know 

Of  coming  grace  and  majesty.  ’Tis  willed 

The  scars  should  deeper  be,  until  the  toil 

And  chiseling  are  adequate;  when  lo! 

God’s  all-unfathomed  plan  is  quite  fulfilled. 


The  Soul’s  Courts 

Within  the  soul’s  courts  is  a  temple  fair, 

And  garnished  with  immortal  bloom  of  light 
Than  em’rald  star-sheen  fairer.  To  the  sight 
It  rises,  dazzling  as  some  vision  rare, 

That  haunts  the  artist,  ere  it  fades  in  air. 

There  sits  Reserve,  a  maid  of  sober  mien, 

Guarding  the  sacred  portals.  All  unseen 
Th’  angelic  ministrants  that  linger  where 
She  holds  control.  Within,  a  little  space, 

There  kneels  sweet  Reverie  with  calmest  eyes ; 

And  Love  all  crowned  with  dewy  asphodels, 
Through  green  isles  wanders  in  unconscious  grace, 
His  face  all  luminous  with  glad  surprise, 

While  from  his  lips  transcendent  music  wells. 

80 


Limitations 


The  subtlest  strain  a  great  musician  weaves, 
Cannot  attain  in  rhythmic  harmony 
To  music  in  his  soul.  May  it  not  be 
Celestial  lyres  send  hints  to  him?  He  grieves 
That  half  the  sweetness  of  the  song,  he  leaves 
Unheard  in  the  transition.  Thus  do  we 
Yearn  to  translate  the  wondrous  majesty 
Of  some  rare  mood,  when  the  rapt  soul  receives 
A  vision  exquisite.  Yet  who  can  match 
The  sunset’s  iridescent  hues?  Who  sing 
The  skylark’s  ecstasy  so  seraph-fine? 

We  struggle  vainly,  still  we  fain  would  catch 
Such  rifts  amid  life’s  shadows,  for  they  bring 
Glimpses  ineffable  of  things  divine. 


The  Venus  of  Melo 

O  peerless  marble  marvel!  what  of  grace, 

Or  matchless  symmetry  is  not  enshrined 
In  thy  rare  contours !  Could  we  hope  to  find 
The  regal  dignity  of  that  fair  face 
In  aught  less  beautiful?  We  would  retrace, 

At  sight  of  thee,  our  willing  steps  where  wind 
The  paths  great  Homer  trod.  Within  whose  mind 
Wast  thou  a  dream,  O  Goddess?  Nearer  pace 
Brave  Hector,  reckless  Paris,  as  we  gaze; 

Then  stately  temples,  fluted  colonnades 

Rise  in  their  sculptured  beauty.  Yes !  ’tis  Greece, 

With  all  the  splendor  of  her  lordliest  days, 

That  comes  to  haunt  us:  ere  the  glory  fades 
Let  Fancy  bid  the  rapture  never  cease. 

81 


The  Quest  of  the  Ideal 


Fair  Hope  with  lucent  light  in  her  glad  eyes, 
Fleet  as  Diana,  through  the  meadow  speeds ; 
Nor  dewy  rose  nor  asphodel  she  heeds, 

For  lo !  unwonted  radiance  in  the  skies 
Bids  her  not  pause.  The  silv’ry  shimmer  lies 
’Mid  blooming  vistas,  whence  the  pathway  leads 
To  heights  aerial.  The  glow  recedes 
As  panting  Hope  toils  on,  while  awed  surprise 
Fills  her  sweet  glances ;  will  the  vision  fade 
Ere  she  can  reach  it?  Nay,  ’tis  lovelier  far, 
Barer  perspectives  open  to  her  gaze; 

Then  hasten  on,  expectantly,  glad  maid! 

The  splendor  still  will  tremble  there  afar; 

Yet  count  this  quest  the  holiest  of  thy  days. 


An  Ocean  Musing 

Far,  far  out  lie  the  white  sails  all  at  rest; 

Like  spectral  arms  they  seem  to  touch  and  cling 
Unto  the  wide  horizon.  Not  a  iving 
Of  truant  bird  glides  down  the  purpling  west ; 

No  breeze  dares  to  intrude,  e’en  on  a  quest 
To  fan  a  lover’s  brow;  the  waves  to  sing 
Have  quite  forgotten  till  the  deep  shall  fling 
A  bow  across  its  vibrant  chords.  Then,  lest 
One  moment  of  the  sea’s  repose  we  lose, 

Nor  furnish  Fancy  with  a  thousand  themes 
Of  unimagined  sweetness,  let  us  gaze 
On  this  serenity,  for  as  we  muse, 

Lo !  all  is  restless  motion :  life’s  best  dreams 
Give  changing  moods  to  even  halcyon  days. 


82 


Emekson 


On  shining  heights  where  Thought  with  stately  tread, 
Leads  on  her  willing  votaries  to  fanes 
Of  holy  inspiration,  and  Truth  deigns 
The  radiance  of  her  presence  rare  to  shed, 

In  solemn  consecration  thou  wast  led, 

Spirit  serene;  and  on  the  dewy  plains, 

Where  Solitude  in  chastest  grandeur  reigns, 

Thy  musings  e’en  most  daintily  were  fed. 

Round  thee  winds  played  the  choicest  symphony, 

And  vistas  of  celestial  beauty  gleamed 
Along  thy  pathway :  so  we  weeping,  say — • 

Though  here  with  us  thou  may’st  no  longer  be — 

“.He  now  has  climbed  the  mount  of  which  he  dreamed, 
Into  the  splendors  of  Immortal  Day.” 


To  Laura 

In  Mem’ry’s  fairest  court  a  shrine  is  set, 

Round  which  the  fragrance  of  a  sweet  life  clings, — 
The  essence  of  such  rare  and  holy  things 
As  Love  alone  can  sanctify.  The  fret 
And  turmoil  of  the  world  avail  not  yet 
To  quench  the  sweetness;  for  an  angel’s  wings 
Are  ever  hov’ring  near,  and  longing  brings 
A  vision  loved  that  makes  the  eyelids  wet. 

Dear  sister,  in  those  realms  of  radiant  light 
Where  thou  hast  grown  to  know  a  richer  lore 
Than  that  of  earth,  sometimes  rememb’rest  thou 
The  hours  of  our  companionship  so  bright 
With  joyance?  Ay,  but  we  shall  meet  once  more, 
And  at  God’s  throne  in  praise  together  bow. 


83 


CHAMPIONS  OF  FREEDOM 


To  My  Father 


A  leaf  from  Freedom’s  golden  chaplet  fair, 

We  bring  to  thee,  dear  father!  Near  her  shrine 

None  came  with  holier  purpose,  nor  was  thine 

Alone  the  soul’s  mute  sanction ;  every  prayer 

Thy  captive  brother  uttered  found  a  share 

In  thy  wide  sympathy ;  to  every  sign 

That  told  the  bondman’s  need  thou  didst  incline. 

No  thought  of  guerdon  hadst  thou  but  to  bear 
A  loving  part  in  Freedom’s  strife.  To  see 
Sad  lives  illumined,  fetters  rent  in  twain, 

Tears  dried  in  eyes  that  wept  for  length  of  days — 
Ah!  was  not  that  a  recompense  for  thee? 

And  now  where  all  life’s  mystery  is  plain, 

Divine  approval  is  thy  sweetest  praise. 


William  Lloyd  Garrison 

Written  for  the  Occasion  of  the  Garrison  Centenary , 
December  10,  1905 

Some  names  there  are  that  win  the  best  applause 
Of  noble  souls ;  then  whose  shall  more  than  thine 
All  honored  be?  Thou  heardst  the  Voice  Divine 
Tell  thee  to  gird  thyself  in  Freedom’s  cause, 

And  cam’st  in  life’s  first  bloom.  No  laggard  laws 
Could  quench  thy  zeal  until  no  slave  should  pine 
In  galling  chains,  caged  in  the  free  sunshine. 

Till  all  the  shackles  fell,  thou  wouldst  not  pause. 
So  to  thee  who  hast  climbed  heroic  heights, 

And  led  the  way  to  where  chaste  Justice  reigns, 

86 


An  anthem, — tears  and  gratitude  and  praise, 
Its  swelling  chords, — uprises  and  invites 
A  nation  e’en  to  join  the  jubilant  strains, 
Which  celebrate  thy  consecrated  days. 


Wendell  Phillips 

A  knight  of  “silver  tongue”  and  stately  grace, 
Dowered  with  th’  immortal  gift  of  fearlessness, 
Whose  falcon  glance  bent  to  detect  distress, 
Perceived  a  brother  in  each  human  face, 

And  deemed  the  lowliest  worthy  of  a  place 
In  the  world’s  honors,— such  was  he.  T’  impress 
Men’s  minds  with  lofty  purpose  seemed  success 
To  this  great  soul;  and  to  uplift  a  race 
From  depths  of  sorrow  compensation  vast, 

For  much  life  leaves  unrecompensed.  The  seal 
Of  heroism  on  his  brow  more  fair 
Than  leafiest  laurel  was.  Deeds  that  outlast 
The  warrior’s  victories  his  days  reveal, 

And  unto  him  we  render  rev’rence  rare. 


Charles  Sumner 

Thine  was  a  brain  of  Nature’s  finest  mould, 
Great  Sumner !  and  thy  spirit-poise  as  rare. 
Bom— not  to  idly  dream  but  nobly  dare — 

With  all  the  mind’s  vast  forces  well  controlled, 
Thou,  like  Olympian  Jove,  didst  wisely  hold 
Stern  empire  over  justice.  Thine  the  care, 
That  right  should  rule,  and  wrong,  however  fair 
In  outward  seeming,  should  be  shunned.  Untold 
The  influence  of  thy  magnanimity. 

Alert  in  action,  sage  in  counsel  thou, 

A  statesman  truly,  not  alone  in  name, 

Thy  regnant  soul  spurned  ev’ry  false  decree. 

87 


Honor  was  graven  on  thy  shield,  and  now 
We  fain  would  honor  thee  with  loud  acclaim. 


Robert  G.  Shaw 

When  War’s  red  banners  trailed  along  the  sky, 
And  many  a  manly  heart  grew  all  aflame 
With  patriotic  love  and  purest  aim, 

There  rose  a  noble  soul  who  dared  to  die, 

If  only  Right  could  win.  He  heard  the  cry 
Of  struggling  bondmen  and  he  quickly  came, 
Leaving  the  haunts  where  Learning  tenders  fame 
Unto  her  honored  sons ;  for  it  was  ay 
A  loftier  cause  that  lured  him  on  to  death. 

Brave  men  who  saw  their  brothers  held  in  chains, 
Beneath  his  standard  battled  ardently. 

O  friend !  O  hero !  thou  who  yielded  breath 
That  others  might  share  Freedom’s  priceless  gains, 
In  rev’rent  love  we  guard  thy  memory. 


Toussaint  L’Ouverture 

To  those  fair  isles  where  crimson  sunsets  bum, 

We  send  a  backward  glance  to  gaze  on  thee, 

Brave  Toussaint!  thou  wast  surely  bom  to  be 
A  hero;  thy  proud  spirit  could  but  spurn 
Each  outrage  on  thy  race.  Couldst  thou  unlearn 
The  lessons  taught  by  instinct?  Nay!  and  we 
Who  share  the  zeal  that  would  make  all  men  free, 
Must  e’en  with  pride  unto  thy  life-work  turn. 
Soul-dignity  was  thine  and  purest  aim ; 

And  ah!  how  sad  that  thou  wast  left  to  mourn 
In  chains  ’neath  alien  skies.  On  him,  shame!  shame 
That  mighty  conqueror  who  dared  to  claim 
The  right  to  bind  thee.  Him  we  heap  with  scorn, 
And  noble  patriot!  guard  with  love  thy  name. 

88 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Rhyme  of  the  Antique  Forest 

In  the  antique  forest  dreary, 

Where  the  thrushes  never  weary, 

Sang  when  Dawn  with  touch  uncertain 
Streaked  with  gold  night’s  sable  curtain, 
Sang  until  the  owlet  muttered 
At  the  faintest  notes  they  uttered, 

In  the  antique  forest  lonely, 

Dwelt  a  pensive  maiden  only. 

Was  she  maid,  or  sprite,  or  fairy, 
Nature  fashioned  her  so  airy? 

Wide  her  tresses,  amber-tinted 
As  if  sunbeams  through  them  glinted. 
Reveries  were  calmly  brooding 
In  her  e}res  and  not  intruding, 

And  her  smile  for  very  sweetness 
Seemed  to  supplement  completeness. 

Had  enchantment’s  wand  waved  o’er  her 
That  the  world  lay  strange  before  her? 
Larks  that  cleave  the  ether  singing, 

Bore  with  song  her  musings  winging 
Toward  the  far  unknown:  would  never 
Stately  knight  or  warrior  seyer 
Chains  that  bound  one  pure  as  sunrise, 
Exquisite  as  perfect  moonrise? 

Rills  within  the  forest  glimmered, 
Golden-green  the  leafage  shimmered ; 
Grottoes  dim  with  mossy  ceiling, 

Seemed  some  Dryad-haunt  revealing. 

90 


’Mid  the  tangled  fretwork  drifted 
Hints  of  azure,  zephyrs  lifted 
Fragrance  from  the  strange  wood  flowers, 
Dreaming  in  their  sylvan  bowers. 

Lilies  fair  as  snowflakes  falling, 

Roses  Eastern  climes  recalling, 

Buds  whose  liquid  fire  seemed  vying 
With  the  sun  when  day’s  a-dying, 

Blossoms  diamond-tipped  and  creamy 
In  their  heart’s  depth,  all  swmng  dreamy, 
’Mid  the  forest  trees  emplanted 
Where  the  light  through  mazes  slanted. 

Lofty,  foliage-embowered. 

Stood  the  castle;  fountains  showered 
High  in  air  their  glist’ning  brightness, 
Where  the  deer  for  very  lightness 
Leaped  with  noiseless  footstep,  staying 
Oft  to  list  to  echoes  straying 
Through  the  court,  as  void  of  dwelling 
Stray  weird  spirits  sorrow  telling. 

Years  agone  these  courts  resounded 
With  the  voice  of  glee,  hearts  bounded 
To  the  tones  of  love,  eyes  brightened 
Under  music’s  spell,  mirth  lightened 
Ev’ry  wasting  care ;  yet  sorrow 
Lurks  behind  each  joy,  to-morrow 
Oft  belies  to-day,  and  gladness 
Seems  projected  into  sadness. 

One  fair  eve  the  Countess  Una 
Gazing  on  the  sky  where  Luna 
Dipped  her  silver  horns,  saw  stealing 
Through  the  woods  a  form  revealing 
91 


Myst’ry  in  its  pace;  ay,  nearer 
Came  a  page  and  beckoned ;  clearer 
Grew  the  light,  and  something  told  her 
He  had  brought  grief  to  enfold  her. 

At  his  words  she  tottered  shrieking; 
And  full  soon  home  bore  they  reeking 
In  his  heart’s  blood,  one  who  never 
Quailed  in  battle  now  forever 
Hushed  in  death.  Sir  Hubert,  bravest 
Of  his  kinsmen,  yet  the  gravest, 

Save  with  his  bride-wife,  when  tender 
Were  the  acts  his  love  did  render. 

Soon  there  came  despair  to  banish 
A  sweet  babe,  and  grief  did  vanish 
’Neath  the  mother-love  enkindled 
E’en  to  rapture;  sorrow  dwindled 
To  a  holy  mem’ry.  Fairer 
Grew  the  child  and  ever  rarer 
Her  angelic  smile,  beseeching 
Cherub  mates  beyond  her  reaching. 

Yet  while  still  her  footsteps  tender 
Tottered  round  the  hearth,  to  render 
Joy  unto  the  mother,  slowly 
Neared  Death’s  angel  and  a  holy 
Peace  came  with  the  parting  blessing 
Una  gave  her  babe ;  refreshing 
Were  the  promises  from  Heaven 
That  to  those  who  seek  are  given. 

Sweeter  grew  the  child,  yet  sadness 
Seemed  her  comrade  more  than  gladness. 
Called  Bianca,  all  the  fairness 
Of  the  name  betokened  rareness 
92 


Of  her  spirit’s  chasteness,  dovelike 
Was  her  aspect  and  most  lovelike 
All  her  speech  to  those  around  her, 
While  a  something  weird  enwound  her. 

In  the  shad’wj  halls  the  maiden 
Wandered  lonely,  ever  laden 
With  her  fresh  soul’s  mystic  dreaming. 
Lore  the  still  stars  in  their  gleaming, 
Taught  her,  and  the  rushing  river, 
Violets  young  and  dew,  the  quiver 
Of  the  wind-harps  ’mid  the  branches, 
And  the  sunset’s  golden  lances. 

And  a  gentle  monk  came  teaching 
Wisdom  found  in  books,  yet  reaching 
More  the  line  of  contemplation 
Than  aught  active;  meditation 
On  the  sweep  of  moon-rays  caught  him 
Fancy-bound,  and  life  had  brought  him 
Inward  visions  ;  so  his  guiding 
Made  her  dream-life  more  abiding. 


As  the  years  sped  on,  revealing 
All  her  spirit’s  worth,  came  stealing 
Something  of  that  nameless  longing 
To  a  maiden’s  life  belonging, 

When  the  air  seems  palpitating 
With  Love’s  tender  message;  mating 
Birds  sing  matins  soft  and  tender; 
All  to  Love  the  heart  would  render. 

’Twas  the  magic  sunset  hour; 

In  the  West  a  golden  dower 
Of  rare  filmy  light  was  burning; 
Radiant  was  the  earth.  Returning 
93 


From  a  ramble  came  the  maiden 
To  her  dream-nook.  With  sleep  laden 
Fell  her  drowsy  lids,  while  thrushes 
Sang  amid  the  river  rushes. 


In  the  woods  a  knight  was  straying, 
Lost  in  musing.  Sunlight  playing 
O’er  a  mossy  path  invited 
Him  to  linger.  Birds  alighted 
Near  him  with  their  choicest  chanting; 
Sunbeams,  like  lit  pearls,  were  slanting 
O’er  the  water’s  wavy  billows, 

While  the  breeze  sang  in  the  willows. 

Then  the  knight  approached  the  bower 
Where  the  maiden,  like  a  flower. 

Lay  a-dreaming;  there  he  started 
At  the  vision ;  ne’er  faint-hearted 
Was  he,  but  the  thought  came  leaping 
As  he  gazed  upon  her  sleeping, 

Was  she  maid,  or  sprite,  or  fairy, 
Nature  fashioned  her  so  airy? 

Rose-encolored,  oval-moulded 
Was  her  profile;  eyelids  folded 
O’er  her  eyes  hid  deepest  meaning 
From  the  knight  above  her  leaning. 
Then  she  raised  them  very  slowly, 

In  their  sapphire  depths  some  holy 
Thought  slept;  was  she  supplicating 
Spirits  for  her  mandate  waiting? 

Thus  they  met,  the  maid  descending 
From  her  dream-nook;  and  the  blending 
Of  their  thoughts  became  a  prelude 
To  Love’s  symphony.  Each  fair  mood 
94- 


Of  the  one  e’en  was  reflected 
In  the  other,  till  perfected 
Was  their  intercourse,  revealing 
Depths  of  rare  and  tender  feeling. 

And  their  days  passed  by  in  gladness 
With  no  note  of  aught  of  sadness 
In  their  life-song.  So  one  morning 
When  the  dainty  hues  of  dawning 
Streaked  the  skies,  they  went  a-straying 
Through  the  meadows,  where  were  playing 
Wind-lyres  through  the  trees,  and  dancing 
Sunbeams  o’er  the  lake  were  glancing. 

Came  a  stately  lady  riding 
On  a  palfrey,  near  the  gliding 
Waters  of  the  stream.  She  started 
When  the  two  she  saw,  departed 
Swiftly  with  a  brow  of  ire, 

And  to  brave  the  raging  fire 

In  her  breast,  the  reins  firm  tight’ning, 

Sent  the  maid  a  glance  like  lightning. 

Then  Bianca,  pale  and  trembling. 

Yet  spoke  joyous  words,  dissembling 
Thus  her  fear;  for  on  the  morrow 
Must  the  knight  speed  forth,  and  sorrow 
At  the  parting  made  those  hours 
Sacred  ones.  Of  choicest  flowers 
He  a  garland  wove,  the  fairest 
One  to  crown  with  buds  the  rarest. 

Months  had  sped.  Sir  Guy  was  eager 
To  return,  but  battle’s  rigor 
Held  him,  and  the  maid  grown  weary 
At  his  absence,  to  the  dreary 
95 


Forest  went  one  breezy  morning; 

There,  without  a  sign  of  warning, 

Came  the  stately  lady,  sweeping 
Wide  her  flowing  skirts  and  leaping 

To  a  height  of  wrath  and  madness, 

When  she  saw  the  maid ;  the  sadness 
Of  her  aspect  no  compassion 
Waking  in  one  so  by  passion 
Swayed.  In  harshest  tones  she  uttered 
Cruel  words :  “  O  be  not  fluttered, 

Maiden.  Is  Sir  Guy  departed? 

Go  he  must,  the  craven-hearted. 

“  I  his  wife  am,  lady  fairest. 

Though  thy  face  be  of  the  rarest, 

Me  he  wedded,  to  me  plighted 

Perfect  troth.  Now  wronged  and  slighted, 

Come  I  all  his  sin  revealing, 

Sin  that  will  not  bear  concealing. 

All  the  tender  love  he  gave  thee, 

From  his  treach’ry  cannot  save  thee.” 

’Neath  the  maiden’s  dreamy  lashes 
Something  gleamed  like  lightning  flashes 
In  her  sapphire  eyes ;  then  slowly 
Lifting  them,  so  pure  and  holy, 

To  the  lady’s  gaze,  all  keenly 
Piercing  hers,  she  with  a  queenly 
Mien  arose,  plaintively  saying, 

“  Naught  is  left  us  twain  but  praying.” 

In  her  soul  where  sorrow  mingling 
With  despair  sent  the  blood  tingling 
Through  her  veins,  arose  a  vision 
Of  the  love  that  made  Elysian 
96 


All  the  future;  and  the  yearning 
Of  her  heart,  the  sudden  turning 
Of  life’s  roseate  page,  made  sadness 
Something  e’en  akin  to  madness. 

Then  the  false  one  swiftly  glided 
Through  the  woods.  He  she  derided, 
Dreamed  not  that  the  maid  he  cherished, 
Felt  ’twere  best  her  love  had  perished 
Ere  it  burst  to  sweetest  blooming. 

Now  as  day  grew  near  to  nooning, 

In  a  boat  to  seek  the  friar 
Went  she,  while  the  weird  wind-lyre 


Sent  its  plaint  across  the  billow. 

Bowed  with  sorrow  as  the  willow 
Bends  in  tempests,  long  she  uttered 
Wails  of  grief.  Her  gold  hair  fluttered 
O’er  the  boat’s  edge.  In  the  gloaming 
Rose  the  convent,  sea  birds  roaming 
Flung  their  wild  lament  to  greet  her. 

But  the  monk  ne’er  came  to  meet  her. 

For  the  boat  was  fiercely  driven 
On  the  rocks,  its  sides  all  riven 
By  the  lashing.  And  the  maiden 
With  a  heart  so  sorrow-laden, 

What  of  her?  Weak,  wan  and  bleeding, 
On  a  crag  she  lay,  sore  needing 
Much  that  loving  hands  can  render, — 
Ministrations  sweet  and  tender. 

Soon  a  fisherman  espied  her, 

And  he  gently  knelt  beside  her. 

Lifting  carefully  his  burden 

With  no  thought  of  aught  of  guerdon, 

97 


To  his  hut  he  sped;  the  morrow 
Saw  her  eased  somewhat  of  sorrow. 

Ay,  her  humble  friends  found  gladness 
In  their  task  to  soothe  her  sadness. 

One  rare  day  when  ah  the  thrushes 
Sang,  and  ’mid  the  river  rushes 
Lilies  raised  their  lovely  faces, 

While  anon  in  shady  places 
Silence  held  her  reign,  the  maiden 
With  her  soul  so  sorrow-laden, 

Sought  a  fav’rite  leafy  bower, 

Jess’mine- twined,  with  many  a  flower 

Decked,  and  when  the  sunbeams  sprinkled 
Sprays  of  dainty  lig’ht,  while  wrinkled 
Were  the  waves  the  winds  were  kissing, 
Mute  she  sat  there,  love’s  tones  missing; 
While  her  heart  was  sorely  }reaming 
For  a  lost  joy  and  returning 
To  a  past  with  rapture  gleaming, 

Sweet  and  fairer  than  all  dreaming. 

Wrapped  in  melancholy’s  mazes, 

Who  is  it  that  long  time  gazes 
At  her  winsome  beauty,  heeding 
Naught  save  that  rare  face,  and  needing 
But  a  glance  to  send  him  kneeling 
At  her  feet,  his  love  revealing? 

Just  a  breath,  and  something  told  her 
He  was  waiting  to  enfold  her. 

In  his  arms  where  all  of  sadness 
Quickly  died,  a  little  gladness 
Soothed  her,  and  the  list’ning  lover 
Heard  the  tale  that  sought  to  cover 
98 


All  his  life  with  shame.  Then  nearer 
Drew  he  to  him  one  the  dearer 
For  her  pain.  Now  all  her  longing 
Found  its  balm  in  love’s  new  dawning. 

For  he  told  her  Blanche  the  scorn fuL, 

Was  his  cousin,  and  the  mournful 
Tale  rehearsed  of  parents  planning 
Their  betrothal,  only  fanning 
Him  to  discontent  and  leaving 
In  her  heart  a  scar;  e’en  weaving 
Round  her  life  a  spell  of  madness, 

While  his  pulses  leaped  to  gladness 

When  he  freedom  found.  The  father 
Seeing  his  distress,  would  rather 
Break  the  bond,  and  so  they  parted, 

He  and  Blanche  the  haughty-hearted. 

Then  Bianca  at  the  story 

Felt  her  soul  grow  calm.  The  glory 

Of  the  magic  sunset  hour 

Threw  a  halo  o’er  her  bower. 

Ring-doves  cooed  with  matchless  quiver 
In  their  love-notes ;  swift  the  river 
Sped,  its  silv’ry  cadence  chanting, 

While  the  liquid  sunbeams  slanting 
Down  the  mountain’s  chiseled  ridges, 

Made  the  dells  aflame,  the  edges 
Of  the  lucent  lake  enkindled. 

In  this  peace  all  sorrow  dwindled 

Into  nothingness.  Together 
With  the  thought  that  naught  could  sever 
Now  their  lives  united,  gladly 
Spoke  the  happy  lovers;  sadly 
99 


Had  the  past  been  spent,  now  sweetest 
Music  in  their  souls  rang;  fleetest 
Were  Time’s  footsteps  and  the  hours 
Idyls  fair  as  fairest  flowers. 

Soon  a  boat  the  lovers  entered; 

Toward  the  castle  where  were  centred 
All  their  early  joys,  fast  speeding 
Went  they,  all  the  wrath  unheeding 
Of  the  low’ring  sky,  till  pealing 
Burst  the  thunder,  and  the  reeling 
Of  their  boat  awoke  a  shiver 
In  their  breasts  as  raged  the  river. 

And  the  wind  howled  loud  and  scattered 
Far  the  rigging,  and  the  tattered 
Masts  hung  round  them.  Then  the  maiden, 
Erst  so  worn  and  sorrow-laden, 

And  rent  with  emotions,  slowly 
Drooped  and  in  her  soul  a  holy 
Calmness  followed  Love’s  fruition. 

So,  in  accents  of  submission, 

Told  she  to  Sir  Guy  that  never 
Could  their  lives  be  joined,  yet  ever 
Would  he  know  that  earth’s  affection 
Rarest  grew  in  Heaven’s  perfection. 

Then  the  lover,  tossed  with  sorrow 
At  her  words,  seemed  but  to  borrow 
Strength  to  brave  the  tempest’s  power. 

So  e’en  at  the  sunset  hour 

Touched  they  land  and  lo !  the  mutt’ring 
Of  the  tempest  ceased  and  flutt’ring 
Cloudlets  edged  with  rosy  fringes, 

As  the  Sun  oped  golden  hinges, 

100 


To  step  in  to  rest,  sailed  lightly 
O’er  the  sky,  and  glowing  brightly 
In  the  East  the  colors  seven 
Gloriously  linked,  seemed  Heaven 

There  to  bring;  the  rainbow’s  fairness 
Glowed  with  such  celestial  rareness. 

In  this  splendor  did  the  maiden 
To  her  lover  so  grief-laden, 

Bid  a  fond  farewell;  yet  never 
Would  their  spirits  seem  to  sever. 

Then  in  anguish  and  despairing 
At  his  blasted  hopes,  but  wearing 

On  his  brow  a  calm  reflected 
From  her  dying  peace,  selected 
He  a  spot  strewn  with  rare  flowers 
Where  she  soon  must  lie,  and  hours 
Long  as  at  a  shrine  he’d  tarry, 

And  his  burdened  heart  could  carry 
There  its  grief  for  that  sweet  maiden 
Whom  he  wept  for,  sorrow-laden. 

In  the  antique  forest  dreary, 

Where  the  thrushes  never  weary, 

Sang  when  Dawn  with  touch  uncertain 
Streaked  with  gold  night’s  sable  curtain, 
Sang  until  the  owlets  muttered 
At  the  faintest  notes  they  uttered, 

In  the  antique  forest  lonely, 

Slept  the  pensive  maiden  only. 

After  years  of  battle  gladly, 

Though  sore  wounded,  -where  so  sadly 
He  had  sorrowed,  came  he  dying, 

And  e’en  on  the  loved  grave  lying, 

101 


Yielded  he  his  life.  Thus  never 
Were  they  parted  and  as  ever, 

In  the  antique  forest  dreary, 

Sang  the  thrushes  never  weary. 

Now  within  the  forest  lonely, 

Rest  the  knight  and  maiden  only. 

Musidoua’s  Vision 

Fair  Musidora  starry-eyed, 

With  blue-black  tresses  floating  wide, 

And  cheeks  like  tinted  shells  beside, — 

Was  seated  in  her  tower  one  night, 

Above  the  hills  whose  purple  light 
Merged  in  the  moonlight’s  golden-white. 

Her  garments  girdle-clasped,  flowed  round 
By  zephyrs  stirred  with  leafy  sound, 

An  amethyst  her  forehead  crowned. 

Afar  surged  the  eternal  sea, 

Nigh,  doves  cooed  in  the  bloss’ming  tree, 
And  shadows  crossed  the  gloomy  lea. 

But  neither  billows  crested  white, 

Nor  blossoms  fairest  to  the  sight, 

Could1  woo  her  soul  from  thought  that  night. 

She  lingered  at  her  telescope, 

While  through  far  worlds  her  mind  did  grope, 
With  something  of  unuttered  hope. 

The  searching  glass  the  stars  had  brought 
In  answer  to  her  earnest  thought, 

And  fast  the  tiny  thread  she  caught, — 

102 


Whose  labyrinthine  mazes  lead 
Through  paths  of  splendor,  rare  indeed 
To  those  who  all  their  myst’ries  heed. 

She  gazed  and  mused  and  gazed  again 
Calm  science  yielded  richest  gain, 

But  could  not  soothe  her  nameless  pain. 


Then  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 

She  clasped'  her  slender  hands  so  fair, 
And  raised1  her  eyes  as  if  in  prayer. 

How  came  the  lady  in  the  tower, 

On  gloomy  leas,  at  such  an  hour, 

When  rarest  beauty  was  her  dower? 

Her  father  was  a  knight  so  bold 
H  is  deeds  of  prowess  ne’er  were  told ; 
And  all  uncounted  was  his  gold. 

A  picture  in  her  father’s  hall, 

Gazing  with  pensive  smile,  was  all 
Her  sainted  mother  to  recall. 

She  loved  Sir  Roderic  the  brave, 

And  tender  was  the  love  he  gave, 
Knight  great  of  heart,  of  aspect  grave. 

But  one  sad  morn,  in  conflict  dire, 

When  war  was  venting  all  its  ire, 

Slain  were  the  lover  and  the  sire. 

She  wrung  her  hands,  fair  Musidore, 
She  fastened  up  her  bower  door, 

And  vowed  she’d  see  the  world  no  more. 
103 


She  bound  her  blue-black  tresses  back, 
And  nursed  her  soul,  hungry  for  lack 
Of  love  and  bruised  on  sorrow’s  rack. 


But  sorrow  nursed  becomes  despair; 

So  yielding  all  her  heart  in  prayer, 

She  craved  of  life  some  little  care. 

And  one  calm  dawn  when  larks  began 
With  song,  celestial  heights  to  fan, 

She  left  the  busy  haunts  of  man. 

Up  in  a  tower  to  scan  the  skies, 

And  woo  weird  Nature’s  sage  replies, 

She  went  to*  hush  despairing  sighs. 

And  on  the  night  when  science  wise 
Failed  to  appease  her  restless  cries, 

Sweet  dreams  slid  through  her  hazel  eyes. 

A  vision  met  her  eager  gaze: 

A  palace  gem-set,  through  the  haze 
Of  clustered  star  and  planet  rays, 

Gleamed  rose-resplendent,  in  the  air; 

Fairer  than  could  with  greatest  care 
Rise  to  the  architect’s  fond  prayer. 

There,  shone  illumined  pillars  veined 

With  crystal  tracery,  and  stained 

With  blood-red  hues  round  which  were  trained 

Rare  purple  buds  and  amaranths  pure, 

So  fragrant,  gods  they  would  allure 
A  life  with  mortals  to  endure. 

104- 


The  dome  upon  these  pillars  lay, — 

The  constellated  Milky  Way, 

Where  bright-eyed  stars  ’mid  snowstorms  play. 


The  palace  carpet  was  of  flowers, 

Fairer  than  e’er  in  Naiad’s  bowers 
Were  spread  to  woo  the  dancing  Hours. 

A  fountain  silver  waters  flung; 

Through  greenest  foliage  rose-bells  hung 
A-trembling  where  the  zephyrs  sung. 


From  arch  to  arch  air-curtains  slid, 

The  pure  blue  iris  shyly  hid 
Pale  regal  aster  blooms  amid. 

Through  the  calm  silence  of  the  place 
Soft  music  stole  with  soothing  grace ; 
Transfigured  seemed  the  list’ner’s  face. 

On  high  with  all  the  myst’ry  blent, 

Eolian  harps  their  sweetness  lent, 

And  through  the  palace  such  strains  sent 

Celestial  symphonies  they  seemed; 

And  Musidora  fondly  dreamed 
Her  angel  mother  on  her  beamed. 

Three  marble  columns  interlaced 
With  porphyry,  the  entrance  faced, 

On  which  these  words  were  finely  traced: 

On  the  first  column  simply,  “  Sad,” 

“  Because,”  the  second  only  had, 

“  Alone,”  was  all  the  third  did  add. 

105 


Mused  Musidora :  “  What  is  this  ? 

Methinks  it  were  the  deepest  bliss, 

Apart  from  love’s  sweet  smile  and  kiss, — 

“To  dwell  within  these  fairy  halls, 

Where  fountains  echo  to  our  calls, 

And  rarest  landscapes  deck  the  walls. 

“  But  who  comes  here  ?  I  seem  to  see 
A  mortal:  do  my  senses  flee, 

Or  is  she  really  like  to  me?” 

A  lady  clad  in  spotless  white, 

With  eyes  like  stars  some  frosty  night, 

And  hair  disheveled,  rose  to  sight. 

Where  did  she  come  from?  Like  a  sprite 
From  fair  fount  rising,  jeweled  bright 
With  sunbeams,  there  she  did  alight. 

She  oped  her  chiseled  lips  to  speak, 

Her  countenance  all  shining  meek, 

Yet  sad  as  one  whom  Grief  might  seek. 

She  said:  “  O  stranger  sweet  of  face, 

And  moving  with  majestic  grace, 

How  cam’st  thou  in  this  saddest  place?” 

Then  Musidora :  “  Know  I  not 

How  in  this  strange,  enchanting  spot 
I  came,  but  would  it  were  my  lot 

“  Within  these  halls  to  spend  my  days, 
Soothed  by  the  fountain’s  silv’ry  lays, 

And  utt’ring  naught  save  hymns  of  praise.” 
106 


Then  said  the  sad  one:  “Dwell  with,  me, 
Though  mine  the  palace  that  you  see, 

Alone  I  cannot  happy  be. 

“  Saw’st  thou  the  columns  at  the  gate? 
Those  words  I  utter  early,  late ; 

Alas !  They  speak  my  tragic  fate. 

“  Come,  come  and  love  me,  Lady  fair, 

I  will  requite  thee  with  fond  care, 

And  for  thee  shall  be  all  my  prayer.” 

They  clasped  each  other  hand  in  hand; 
Each  would  the  other  understand, 

Her  name  would  know,  her  native  land. 

Heart  throbbed  to  heart  as  soft  they  kissed. 
Silence  was  in  that  place,  I  wist ; 

The  fountain  even  seemed  to  list. 

The  vision  fled  as  morning  broke, 

And  at  the  matin  bell’s  faint  stroke, 

Glad  Musidora  slowly  woke. 

Up  to  the  radiant,  calm  air, 

She  raised  her  eyes  in  holy  prayer, 

In  thanks  that  life  was  still  so  fair. 

And  then  the  dreamer  earnest-eyed, 

Threw  back  her  tresses,  wand’ring  wide, 
Clasped  close  her  hands  and  nobly  cried: 

“  Selfish  I  long  have  been  and  blind, 

My  duty  I  can  only  find 

In  love  and  suff’ring  with  mankind.” 

107 


Echo’s  Complaint 


O  rare  N arcissus  !  sunn y-haired ! 

O  mild-eyed  youth  of  godlike  mien! 

O  thou  that  sittest  by  fair  streams, 

And  in  their  trembling,  silv’ry  sheen 
Thy  lovely  countenance  dost  view, 

Turn  but  once  more  thy  magic  gaze 
On  one  who  utters  sad  complaint, 

One  who  will  love  thee  many  days. 

’Mid  sylvan  haunts  I  dwelt  of  yore, 

Where  morning  mists  shone  wondrously, 
And  fountains  flung  their  diadems 
Of  liquid  rainbows.  Unto  me 
Each  day  was  gladness ;  grottoes  cool 
With  trickling  rills  and  murm’rous  leaves, 
Lured  me  to  seek  their  spacious  shades; 

But  not  for  these  my  spirit  grieves. 

When  Dawn  in  rose-decked  chariot  strewed 
Pale  gold  down.  Twilight’s  violet  aisles, 

I  first  beheld  thee:  ah!  how  fair! 

I  trembled  ’neath  thy  radiant  smiles. 

Thou  pensive,  glidedst  through  the  groves, 
While  I,  unthought  of,  with  the  breeze 
In  lightness  vying, — followed  near. 

Did  not  some  spell  thy  spirit  seize? 

I  sighed :  naught  save  the  wanton  wind 
Returned  my  plaint.  Thou,  peerless  youth, 
Back  tossed  thy  amber  tresses;  glad 
Thou  sangst,  for  me  thou  hadst  no  ruth. 
Day  threw  gold  arrows  o’er  the  plain, 

And  glist’ning  grew  each  vine-clad  height; 
Stars  robed  in  silver  tissues,  paced 
To  solemn  music,  welcoming  Night, — 

108 


Ere  my  sad  soul  could  utter  low 
To  thee  its  grief.  Rememb’rest  thou 
That  evening?  All  the  lawns  were  bright 
With  lum’nous  splendor;  o’er  the  brow 
Of  yon  fair  mount,  the  stately  moon 
Looked  caljn-eyed  on  the  sleeping  world ; 
In  dim  glades  rare  asters  lay 
On  ^assy  banks,  all  dew-impearled. 

V 


On  high  Olympus  mighty  gods 
Held  carnival  with  matchless  song. 

Yea,  earth  was  jubilant,  yet  I, 

Apart  from  all  the  festive  throng, 

Told  to  thine  ear  my  soul’s  complaint. 
Thou  didst  not  heed  my  spirit’s  moan ; 
Then  pity  now,  O  peerless  one! 

Oh!  leave  me  not  unloved  and  lone. 


Gaze  not  within  the  sunlit  stream 
So  ling’ringly,  there  but  to  see 
What  in  my  soul  is  mirrored:  may 
Not  eyes  of  love  thy  mirror  be? 

Come,  rare  Narcissus!  deign  to  smile 
On  Echo,  nymph  in  sore  distress, 
Who  ever,  shadow-like,  will  go 
With  thee,  till  thou  shalt  love  confess. 


’Tis  said  I’m  fair  and  love  for  thee 
Will  make  me  fairer,  ay,  as  fair 
As  glorious  Aphrodite,  come 
And  let  me  kiss  thy  sunny  hair, 

Thy  marble  brow;  ay,  let  me  kiss 
Thy  dewy  lips,  thy  peerless  eyes. 

One  clasp  from  thee,  one  long  love-clasp 
Will  change  to  joy-notes  all  my  sighs. 
109 


Thus  wailed  sad  Echo:  but  to  all 
Her  lamentation  naught  replied 
Unmoved  Narcissus ;  and  the  nymph, 
Sweet  Echo,  thus  in  love  sore  tried, 
Was  seen  no  more;  but  on  the  breeze 
Her  voice  was  heard,  her  voice  alone 
Was  left, — an  answ’ring  cade  e  there, 
Love  thrilling  still  its  ling’i3  g  tone. 


Antigone  and  CEdipus 

Slow  wand’ring  came  the  sightless  sire  and  she, 
Great-souled  Antigone,  the  Grecian  maid. 
Leading  with  pace  majestic  his  sad  steps, 

On  whose  bowed  head  grim  Destiny  had  laid 
A  hand  relentless  ;  oft  the  summer  breeze 
Raised  the  gold  tresses  from  her  veined  cheek, 
As  with  a  dainty  touch,  so  much  she  seemed 
A  being  marvelous,  regal,  yet  meek. 

Thus  spake  sad  CEdipus :  “  Ah !  whither  now, 

O  daughter  of  an  aged  sire  blind, 

Afar  from  Thebes’  pure,  crested  colonnades, 
Shall  we,  sad  exiles,  rest  and  welcome  find? 
Who  will  look  on  us  with  a  pitying  eye? 

But  unto  me  sweet  resignation’s  balm 
Suff’ring  and  courage  bring;  yet  moments  come 
When  naught  restores  my  spirit’s  wonted  calm. 

“  0  rare  dim  vales  and  glitt’ring  sunlit  crags ! 
O  vine-clad  hills  soft  with  the  flush  of  dawn ! 

O  silver  cataract  dancing  to  the  sea, 

And  shad’wy  pines  and  silent  dewy  lawn ! 

I  ne’er  can  see  you  more.  Alas!  alas! 

But  whither  go  we?  Speak!  O  daughter  fair; 
Thou  must  indeed  be  sight  unto  thy  sire. 

Does  here  a  temple  consecrate  the  air?” 

110 


“My  father!  grieve  not  for  our  distant  land.” 
Thus  made  Antigone  reply :  “  I  see 

Amid  the  forest’s  music-echoing  aisles, 

A  spot  of  peace  and  blest  repose  for  thee. 

In  solemn  loftiness  the  towers  rear 
Their  stately  pinnacles;  my  eyes  behold 
The  he  y  laurel  decked  in  festive  robes, 

The  olive  pale,  waving  in  sunset-gold. 


“  In  the  green  leafage,  tender  nightingales 
Are  chanting  dulcet  harmonies  meanwhile, 
In  the  clear  river’s  liquid  radiance 
The  early  stars,  of  sheen  resplendent,  smile. 

It  is  a  sacred  spot;  here  we  may  shun 
Dangers  that  threaten,  and  in  sweet  content 
Ere  we  need  wander  more,  a  few  short  days 
May  in  these  hallowed  shades  be  calmly  spent. 


“  My  father!  sorrow  not  because  of  Fate! 

Perchance  the  gods  may  kindly  deign  to  look 
With  glance  benignant  on  our  mournful  doom. 
Together  thou  and  I,  can  we  not  brook 
Th’  assaults  of  stem-browed  Destiny?  May  not 
The  fatal  mesh  contain  some  golden  thread, 

Ere  it  be  spun  complete  with  all  of  woe? 

Father!  my  father!  raise  thy  drooping  head!  ” 


“  Immortal  asphodels  ne’er  crowned  a  brow 
More  queenlike  than  is  thine,  my  peerless  child, 
Calm-browed  Antigone !  ah  woe !  sad  fate !  ” 
Then  spake  Antigone  with  aspect  mild  : 

“My  father!  cease  thy  sadness!  wherefore  grieve? 
Oh !  let  us  dream  that  from  the  azure  sky, 

The  gods  gaze  on  us  with  a  pitying  glance. 

Oh !  let  us  hope  a  little  ere  we  die !  ” 

111 


Anita  and  Giovanni 

Through  the  dusky  purple  glimmer 
Of  a  twilight  sky, 

Clear  uprose  the  fountain’s  shimmer, 
Jets  of  spray  flashed  high. 

In  the  gardens  zephyrs  only 
Fanned  the  myrtle  leaves, 

Through  the  hush  of  meadows  lonely, 
Sighed  the  golden  sheaves. 

In  the  vineyards  grapes  were  purpling 
’Mid  the  foliage  green, 

Mountains  dim  stood  up  encircling 
Dreamy  vales  between. 

On  a  bank  with  flowers  laden, 

By  the  Arno’s  tide, 

Sat  a  cavalier  and  maiden 
Musing,  side  by  side. 

He  was  strong-limbed,  but  false-hearted, 
Lithe  and  willowy  she ; 

Naught  save  truth  could  have  imparted 
Her  expression  free 
From  a  shadow  of  dissembling, 

Yet  Love  ruled  her  gaze, 

And  her  veiled  eyes  mused,  resembling 
Star-gleams  through  the  haze. 

Unsuspicious  was  the  lover 
That  the  maid  knew  well 
Of  the  wrong  his  smiles  would  cover: 

So  he  begged  her  tell 
Why  she  sat  mute  in  the  gloaming, 
Heeding  not  his  words ; 

Why  her  very  glance  seemed  roaming 
With  the  restless  birds. 

112 


Ay,  the  lover’s  looks  were  tender, 
Well  he  could  disguise; 

Yet  there  gleamed  a  tragic  splendor 
In  the  maiden’s  eyes. 

“  Giovanni,  thou  deceivest,” 

Calmly  said  she  then ; 

“  If  in  women  thou  believest, 

I  believe  not  men !  ” 


Slow  she  raised  her  long  dark  lashes, 
Showing  weird  brown  eyes, 
Where  a  glance  like  lightning  flashes, 
Vied  with  calm  surprise. 

And  her  gaze,  than  words  far  keener, 
Pierced  her  lover  through. 

“  Canst  thou  love  the  fair  Hermina, 

And  Anita  too? 


“  Shall  I  tell  thee  of  thy  wooing, 

O  false  lover  mine? 

How  thou  cam’st  in  rapture  suing, 
And  my  heart  was  thine? 

Shall  I  tell  thee  how  I  shivered 
When  I  heard  the  same 
Tender  words  to  which  I’d  quivered, 
Breathed  to  her  I  name? 


“  ’Twas  the  sunset  hour  and  slowly 

Strolled  we  through  the  meadows  fair, 
While  the  vesper  bell  so  holy, 

Poured  its  pleading  on  the  air. 

O’er  the  waves  the  cadence  trembled, 

And  the  sky  was  golden-red, 

And  our  loving  words  resembled 

Lispings  of  the  birds  o’erhead. 

113 


“  Ling’ ring  in  the  citron  bower, 

Thou  didst  clasp  my  hand  in  thine, 
Placing  in  my  hair  a  flower, 

And  ‘  Carissima,  be  mine, 

Fori  love  thee  only,  only !  ’ — 

Soft  thou  murmur’ dst  in  my  ear, 
And  my  heart,  before  so  lonely, 

Gave  its  all  without  a  fear. 


“  Last  eve,  ’mid  the  grape  leaves  sitting, 
Plunged  in  tender  reveries, 

Gazed  I  on  the  moonbeams  flitting — 
Tinted  crystals — o’er  the  seas. 

Sad  the  nightingale  was  singing, 

And  I  caught  his  pensive  mood, 
Melancholy  music  bringing 

Charms  that  cannot  be  withstood. 


“  Sudden  heard  I  voices  quiver, 

Were  they  in  the  air  or  nigh? 
Something  made  me  pale  and  shiver, 

Something  told  me  thou  wert  by. 
Did  no  pitying  spirit  warn  thee? 

Hope  ofttimes  our  fear  belies ; 

Yet  the  nightingale  gazed  on  me 
With  compassion  in  his  eyes. 


“  Thou  didst  clasp  her  hand,  false  lover, 
Place  a  flower  in  her  hair; 

O’er  her  thou  didst  fondly  hover, 

And  I  gasped  in  wild  despair. 

‘Fair  Hermina,  thy  sweet  glances, 

All  my  soul  with  rapture  fill ; 

None  like  thee,’ — thou  saidst — ‘entrances, 
Love  me,  bid  my  fears  be  still!’ 

114 


“  That  was  all.  I  heard  no  longer, 

And  I  hungered  for  love’s  sake ; 
Yea!  mj  love  grew  fiercer,  stronger, 
And  I  knew  my  heart  would  break 
Unless  peace  came  wdth  the  dawning; 

So,  resolved  to  break  the  chain, 

I  cast  love  away,  grasped  scorning; 
Scorn  can  conquer  deepest  pain.” 


Then  the  lady  paused:  the  lover 
Blanching,  called  her  name. 

“  Sweet  Anita,  do  not  cover 
My  best  love  with  shame; 

For  I  knew  not  what  I  uttered 
In  the  grove,  yestreen. 

Love  me,  love  me,”  low  he  muttered, 
“  Try  me,  noble  queen  !  ” 


“  Cease !  false  cavalier,  thy  weeping ! 

Love  has  changed  to  scorn ; 
That  heart  is  not  worth  the  keeping, 
Would  to  two  belong. 

If  the  lady’s  eyes  are  sweeter, 

Go!  thy  suit  renew! 

Who  would  win  the  proud  Anita 
Can  no  other  woo  !  ” 


Listening  Nydia 

Meanwhile  Nydia,  when  separated  by  the  throng  from 
Glaucus  and  lone,  had  in  vain  endeavored  to  regain 
them.  .  .  .  Again  and  again  she  returned  to  the  spot 

where  they  had  been  divided — to  find  her  companions 
gone. — •“  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.” 

115 


Breathless  she  stood,  her  graceful  head  bent  low. 
And  dainty  fingers  round  her  chiseled  ear; 

The  cherished  staff  held  tenderly  as  erst, 

When  knew  the  tender  heart  nor  grief  nor  fear. 

A  startled  dove  she  seemed  amid  the  gloom 
And  wrath  of  Nature  wakened  from  soft  dreams ; 
Yet  her  imploring  soul’s  reflection  shone 
Like  the  rare  moonlight  over  summer  streams. 


The  ashes  seemed  to  leave  her  fragile  form 
Unharmed,  despite  the  fierce  volcanic  show’rs ; 

She  listened  in  an  agony  of  doubt, 

Fair  Nydia,  lately  twining  fairest  flow’rs. 

Her  sightless  eyes  seemed  praying,  lightly  veiled 
By  quivering  silken  lashes  wet  with  tears ; 

The  mystic  soul  that  leaps  o’er  bounds  had  made 
The  child  a  woman,  bowed  ’neath  weight  of  years. 


Aglow  with  hope,  with  love-light  luminous, 

Her  features  shone  pure  in  the  fitful  gleams 
That  broke  o’er  column,  arch  and  fleeing  slave, 
O’er  speechless  gladiator  and  blue  streams. 
Expectancy’s  embodied  model  she, 

The  potent  force  of  gesture  all  suppressed; 

But  in  her  motionless,  intent  repose, 

The  soul’s  arrested  pleading  was  confessed. 


The  mountain  lava-washed,  raised  menacing 
Its  peaks  majestic  toward  the  brooding  sky; 
And  unappeased,  the  earth  groaned  piteously, 
While  multitudes  aghast,  fled  cowering  by. 

But  still  pale  Nydia  stood  amid  the  wreck, 

In  sculptured  attitude:  the  broken  lights 
Shed  magic  radiance  o’er  her,  and  she  gleamed 
Like  a  chaste  vision  caught  on  starlit  nights. 

116 


Blind  Nydia !  proud  Pompeii’s  flower-nymph ! 
Child  of  rare  intuitions,  hidden  sight! 

Was  it  the  moaning  of  the  far  off  sea, 

Or  yearning  love  that  chose  thy  path  aright? 

But  though  for  thee,  alas !  none  listeneth, 

Type  of  devotion !  thou  immortal  art ! 

Clad  in  renunciation’s  purest  robes, 

Enshrined  with  love  in  each  devoted  heart ! 

Mignon 

What  art  thou,  Mignon,  child  of  mystery? 

A  woodbird  e’en  in  galling  fetters  caught? 

Dwelling  apart  in  charmed  reverie, 

Crushed  by  the  weight  of  undeveloped  thought, 
Thou  seem’st  some  weird,  sad  spirit  of  the  Past, 
Guarding  a  secret  life  cannot  unfold; 

Yet  was  thy  soul’s  calm  rapture  lily-pure, 

Thy  heart’s  fond  treasures  bright  as  rarest  gold. 

Dim  pictures  of  soft  skies  and  orange  groves, 

Of  marble  statues  with  their  pitying  gaze, 

Lured  thee  to  musing;  while  the  cloudlets  built 
An  airy  path  for  thee  amid  the  haze. 

Sweet  are  thy  songs  of  longing;  thou  didst  dream 
Of  sunny  isles  where  no  rude  questioner 
Shall  need  to  ask  of  man  or  woman  more,* 

And  no  unrest  thy  weary  soul  shall  stir. 

What  depths  of  sorrow  in  thy  dreamy  life, 

Around  which  Mem’ry  wove  a  subtle  chain ; 

Thy  ev’ry  gesture,  ev’ry  glance  expressed 
Intensity  of  yearning  deep  with  pain, 

Yet  lit  by  Hope’s  illuminating  smile; 

Faith  hov’ring  over  tliee,  thou  phantom  bright, 

*  Sie  fragen  nicht  nach  Mann  und  Weib. — Goethe’s  “  Wilhelm 
Meister.” 


117 


Shed  gleams  along  thy  tragic  path,  until 
Thy  spirit’s  wings  unfolded  in  the  Light. 


The  Fisherman’s  Story  -  , 

Draw  a  little  closer,  comrades ! 

For  I  promised  you  should  know 
How  I  found  my  little  Alice, 

In  the  storm  so  long  ago. 

Hear  the  wind?  ’tis  but  an  echo 
Of  the  fury  of  that  hour; 

Nature  seemed  in  mood  defiant, 

Proving  well  her  utmost  power. 

Loud  the  tempest  roared  and  muttered, 
High  the  breakers  dashed  that  night ; 
Stiff  and  stark  against  the  heavens 
Stood  the  cliffs  so  marble  white. 

Many  a  storm  I’ve  weathered,  comrades, 
But  a  something  strangely  sad 
Seemed  to  seize  upon  my  spirits, — 
Feelings  I  had  never  had. 

In  my  window  burned  a  rush-light, 

And  the  curtains  were  half  drawn, 
While  I  gazed  upon  the  billows, 
Thinking  of  my  lot  forlorn, 

Of  my  Jennie  in  the  churchyard, 

And  our  only  boy,  our  pride, 

Sleeping  far  beneath  the  surges, 

Ever  since  that  Christmas-tide. 

Oh !  the  wind  that  moaned  that  midnight ! 
Never  fiercer  tempest  raged 
As  I  strode  into  the  darkness, 

Feeling  like  a  bird  long  caged; 

118 


And  the  thought  of  human  beings 
Tossed  perchance,  upon  the  sands, 

Helped  me  climb  the  rocky  ledges, 

Made  me  clench  my  wrinkled  hands. 

Sudden  as  I  turned  the  headland 
There  I  saw  what  I  had  dreamed; 

For  the  black  hull  of  a  vessel, 

By  the  breakers  sorely  seamed, 

Lay  still  heaving :  all  was  over. 

Bodies  whence  the  life  had  fled, 

Strewed  the  wet  rocks.  I,  the  living, 

Stood  alone  amid  the  dead. 

While  I  scanned  the  ruin  closely, 

With  my  torch-light  lifted  high. 

Something  glistened  through  the  shadows 
Like  a  star  dropped  from  the  sky. 

’Twas  a  babe’s  eyes,  large  and  lustrous, 

And  as  if  in  holy  prayer, 

She  with  look  of  strange  beseeching, 

Gazed  through  her  dead  mother’s  hair. 

Tenderly  I  raised  the  wee  one 
Breathing  there  amidst  the  dead; 

How  the  wind  shrieked  through  the  cordage 
How  the  tempest  raged  o’er-head ! 

Tenderly  I  bore  her  homeward 
To  the  fisher’s  dreary  cot; 

Like  a  star  her  presence’  radiance 
Much  has  cheered  my  lonety  lot. 

Now  draw  closer,  faithful  comrades ! 

When  I  viewed  the  mother’s  face, 

Who  was  it  but  little  Mary, 

Flaxen-haired  and  full  of  grace; 

119 


Mary,  favorite  of  the  village — 

And  I  loved  her  somewhat  too — 

But  she  loved  a  foreign  soldier, 

And  her  life-work  now  was  through. 

So  I  brought  the  little  Alice 
To  my  hearth  so  poor  and  lone; 

Now  she’s  left  me  for  another, 

For  a  fireside  of  her  own. 

Happiness  attend  her,  comrades ! 

For  my  strength  is  getting  low, 

And  I  would  not  grudge  the  pleasure 
She  may  with  another  know. 

Now  draw  closer  still,  my  comrades ! 
Hear  the  tempest  raging  high! 

Though  the  stars  are  veiled  in  darkness, 
They  are  steadfast  in  the  sky. 

So,  although  our  days  are  dreary, 

Let  us  take  what  joy  we  may! 

With  the  courage  of  a  hero, 

Let  us  live  our  little  day ! 


Snow  Song 

From  the  sombre  clouds  fell  snow 
On  the  meadows  far  below, 

On  the  river  late  so  calm, 

When  the  waves  had  hushed  their  psalm. 
Through  the  softly  falling  snow 
Something  fluttered  to  and  fro, 

Gold  light  shimmered  through  the  snow; 
And  a  murmur  filled  the  air. 

Was  it  melody  or  prayer  P 

Like  resplendent  shooting  stars 
Radiance  gleamed  through  snow-flake  bars 
120 


Through  the  silence  of  the  night, 

Said  the  trav’ler  on  the  height, 
“What  can  be  that  vision  rare?” 
’Twas  a  maid  with  golden  hair, 
Singing  in  the  frosty  air, 

Ay, — ia  carol  faint  and  low, — 
Through  the  softly  falling  snow. 

Glad  the  shepherd  piped  at  home, 

And  the  hunter  feared  to  roam, 

For  the  waves  had  hushed  their  psalms 
Folded  in  the  ice  king’s  arms. 

But  the  echoes  brought  a  strain 
To  the  ear  against  the  pane, 

As  the  maid  sang  this  refrain : 

“  Life  hath  joy  and  life  hath  woe!” — 
Through  the  softly  falling  snow. 

Plaintively  the  weird  notes  fell 
With  a  sorrow  in  their  swell; 

Tenderly  the  soft  voice  rose, 
Speaking  pain  and  yet  repose. 

Said  the  knight  with  hasty  feet, 

“  What  can  be  that  music  sweet, 
Quickening  the  warm  heart’s  beat?” 

“  Life  hath  joy  and  life  hath  woe!” — 
Through  the  softly  falling  snow. 

Thicker  fell  the  snowflakes  white, 
Wilder  grew  the  stormy  night; 
Louder,  stronger  came  the  strain, 
Deeper  with  its  sense  of  pain. 

And  the  golden  radiance  still 
Shimmered  ’neath  the  ice-bound  hill, 
As  she  sang  with  deathless  will: 

“  Life  hath  love :  ah  !  be  it  so  !  ” — 
Through  the  softly  falling  suoav. 

121 


As  the  swan’s  most  perfect  lay 
Tells  it  may  not  longer  stay, 

So  those  flute-like  notes  seemed  lent 
By  some  seraph  earthward  sent. 
Yet  once  more  the  calm  voice  rose, 
Faint,  but  sweet  with  rare  repose, 
And  the  strain  did  not  quite  close. 
“  Life  hath  love,”  was  all  to  flow 
Through  the  softly  falling  snow. 


Pastoral 

Annette  came  through  the  meadows 
Where  daffodils  did  blow; 

A  bonnie  maid,  a  winsome  maid, 

With  hat  all  drooping  low 
O’er  eyes  of  wistful  candor; 

Did  ever  timid'  swain 

Look  in  their  depths,  their  liquid  depths, 
And  hope  for  peace  again? 

’Twas  sunset  on  the  meadows, 

And  down  the  leafy  lane, 

With  tinkling,  tinkling,  mellow  bells 
That  made  a  soft  refrain, 

The  drowsy  cows  passed  homeward; 
While  in  the  orchard  green. 

The  robins  trilled  their  gayest  songs, 
All  earth  was  glad,  I  ween. 

A  youth  came  through  the  meadows, 
The  squire’s  son  was  he; 

He  saw  the  maiden’s  rosy  blush, 

And  thought  none  fair  as  she. 

“  Which  way,  0  sweetest  damsel, 

Go  I  to  yonder  town?” 

122 


Quoth  he:  She  archly  showed  the  path, 

With  hat  all  drooping  down. 

Beneath  the  broad  brim  gazed  he 
Into  her  shining  eyes, 

Then  with  true  grace  said :  “  Thanks,  dear  maid.” 
And  when  the  sunset  skies 

Grew  dimmer,  rode  he  forward, 

Saying  with  gentle  pain, 

“  Ah !  what  a  bonnie,  comely  maid, 

I’ll  ride  that  way  again.” 

Annette  came  through  the  meadows, 

No  unaccustomed  thing; 

And  yet,  and  yet,  what  new,  new  song 
Was  it  her  heart  did  sing? 

Was  she  the  selfsame  maiden? 

Nay!  not  the  one  of  yore, 

For  in  that  heart  a  siren  note 
Will  ring  forevermore. 


IDYL 

Sunrise 

Down  in  the  dell, 

A  rose-gleam  fell 
From  azure  aisles  of  space; 
There  with  light  tread 
A  maiden  sped, 

Sweet  yearning  in  her  face. 

Amid  the  sheen, 

The  lark,  I  ween, 
Trilled  love-lays  to  his  mate ; 
The  maiden  sang, 

Her  joy-notes  rang; 

“  He  cometh,  so  I  wait.” 

123 


Noontide 


Upon  the  grass, 

Soft !  let  her  pass ! 

Bend  back,  je  purple  flow’rs ! 
With  fawn-like  grace, 

Hope  in  her  face, 

She  nears  those  sylvan  bow’rs, — 

Where  sunbeams  glide 
This  fair  noontide, 

And  tint  each  bending  bough, 
And  many  a  fold 
Of  purest  gold, 

Enwreathes  her  marble  brow. 

Yes!  he  is  there! 

The  amber  air 

Grows  soft  with  love-notes,  while 
Such  perfect  peace 
It  ne’er  should  cease, 

Illumes  her  eyes  and  smile. 


Sunset 

In  western  skies 
Rare  radiance  lies 
Aslant  from  jeweled  seas. 
The  nightingale 
Tells  not  a  tale 
More  tender  to  the  breeze 

Than  he  to  her; 

No  thought  could  stir 
The  calm  within  her  soul. 
When  life’s  a  dream, 
Does  it  not  seem 
That  love  can  all  control? 

124 


Midnight 


The  gem-like  stars 
Through  fleecy  bars 
Send  down  their  ambient  light; 
’Tis  Splendor’s  reign, 
Before  her  fane, 

Each  suppliant  kneels  to-night. 

The  tryst  is  o’er, 

Yet  what  a  store 
Of  love  the  maid  doth  hold. 

The  gift  is  fair 
As  moon-kissed  air, 

And  bright  as  burnished  gold. 


The  Enchanted  Sheee 

Fair,  fragile  Una,  golden-haired, 

With  melancholy,  dark  gray  eyes, 

Sits  on  a  rock  by  laughing  waves, 

Gazing  into  the  radiant  skies ; 

And  holding  to  her  ear  a  shell, 

A  rosy  shell  of  wondrous  form ; 

Quite  plaintively  to  her  it  coos 
Marvelous  lays  of  sea  and  storm. 

It  whispers  of  a  fairy  home 
With  coral  halls  and  pearly  floors, 

Where  mermaids  clad  in  glist’ning  gold 
Guard  smilingly  the  jeweled  doors. 

She  listens  and  her  weird  gray  eyes 
Grow  weirder  in  their  pensive  gaze. 

The  sea  birds  toss  her  tangled  curls, 

The  skiff  lights  glimmer  through  the  haze. 
125 


O  strange  sea-singer!  what  has  lent 
Such  fascination  to  thy  spell? 

Is  some  celestial  guardian 
Prisoned  within  thee,  tiny  shell? 

The  maid  sits  rapt  until  the  stars 
In  myriad  shining  clusters  gleam ; 

“  Enchanted  Una,”  she  is  called 
By  boatmen  gliding  down  the  stream. 

The  tempest  beats  the  restless  seas, 

The  wind  blows  loud,  fierce  frown  the  skies ; 
Sweet,  sylph-like  Una  clasps  the  shell, 

Peace  brooding  in  her  quiet  eyes. 

The  wind  blows  wilder,  darkness  comes, 
The  rock  is  bare,  night  birds  soar  far; 
Thick  clouds  scud  o’er  the  gloomy  heav’ns 
Unvisited  by  any  star. 

Where  is  quaint  Una?  On  some  isle, 
Dreaming  ’mid  music,  may  she  be? 

Or  does  she  listen  to  the  shell 
In  coral  halls  within  the  sea? 

The  boatmen  say,  on  stormy  nights 
They  see  rare  Una  with  the  shell, 

Sitting  in  pensive  attitude. 

Is  it  a  vision?  Who  can  tell? 


Chateaux  en  Espagne 

Ethel  in  her  crimson  row  boat, 

Floats  amid  the  river  reeds ; 

Dreaming  dreams  of  nameless  longing, 
Little  she  the  gloaming  heeds. 

126 


Castles  grand  and  rare  in  beauty 
Rise  on  pinnacles  of  air; 

Knights  on  royal  steeds  salute  her, 

And  she  listens  to  their  prayer. 

One  with  winning  speech  draws  near  her, 
May  not  brook  a  long  delay ; 

So  she  bows  her  head  in  answer, 

For  she  cannot  say  him  nay. 

Bows  her  head, — ah,  yes!  fair  Ethel! 
Now  thy  golden  locks  are  caught 
In  the  pliant  river  rushes, 

And  the  knight  whose  pleading  sought 

Thee  to  capture,  is  a  phantom. 

Where  the  castles  in  the  air? 

Faded  in  the  misty  gloaming, 

With  the  love  that  thine  would  share. 

Hasten  home!  sweet  fairy  Ethel, 

To  the  cottage  in  the  lane; 

Surely  when  the  years  have  vanished, 
Knight  and  love  will  come  again. 


The  Fading  Skiff 

The  moon  hung  low  ’mid  clouds  enshrined, 
The  waves  caught  in  its  sheen, 

Dashed  up  the  rugged  cliffs ;  the  sky 
Wore  a  mysterious  mien. 

I  watched  a  skiff,  a  fragile  skiff, 

From  out  my  window’s  height, 

Whose  shad’wy  gliding  seemed  attuned 
To  that  enchanted  night. 

127 


He  did  not  know  that  I  was  there 
To  soothe  my  soul’s  unrest ; 

I  watched  the  flutter  of  the  sails, 

Far  down  the  starry  west, 

And  felt  my  heart  in  unison 
Keep  flutt’ring  with  its  pain; 

Yet  why  uplift  my  dreary  plaint, 

Does  the  sweet  moon  complain? 

He  went  to  meet  her  in  the  town, 

Grand  Sybil,  proud  and  fair. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  had  left — 

Beside  his  raven  hair — 

Strange  yearnings  in  a  maiden’s  heart, — 
A  fisher  maiden  she. 

But  ah !  alas !  he  could  not  know, 

To  sail  away  from  me. 

He  said  my  eyes  were  sapphires  rare, 

He  called  my  hair  bright  gold ; 

Then  left  me  with  this  aching  pain, 

And  the  great  world  so  cold. 

Yet  why  complain?  Is  it  not  best 
To  have  Love’s  gracious  boon 
E’en  for  awhile?  I  cannot  tell: 

What  think’st  thou,  silver  moon? 


The  Maid  of  Ehrenthal 

Fair  nights  beneath  the  mellow  moon, 
Foul  nights  when  Nature’s  wildest  tune 
The  tempest  howled  on  high, 

A  maiden  sat  in  wan  despair, 

Veiled  in  her  shining  golden  hair, 

And  this  her  piteous  cry: 

128 


“Ye  nettles  gray,  spring  up,  ah!  quick! 

My  head’s  aflame,  my  soul  is  sick; 

My  love  awaits  the  bridal  morn, 

It  cannot  come  till  ye  be  grown ; 

Of  your  sharp  strands  the  robe  to  spin, 

Ere  I  my  only  love  can  win. 

“  A  bridal  robe  fine  spun  for  me, 

And  then  a  shroud;  whose  can  it  be? 

’Neath  these  green  mounds  my  parents  sleep, 
From  their  hearts’  dost  your  roots  must  creep. 
So  said  the  cruel  master:  woe! 

That  I  must  e’en  be  wedded  so !  ” 

From  out  the  gloomy  mine  at  night. 

Weird  spirits  came,  and  ere  the  light 
Played  verdant  on  the  hill, 

Behold  the  nettles,  robe  and  shroud. 

By  dwarf  hands  spun,  with  craft  endowed 
Such  missions  to  fulfill. 

She  wears  the  robe,  the  master  proud, 

Pale  in  death’s  sleep,  lies  in  the  shroud 
By  hands  uncanny  plied. 

No  longer  now  in  wan  despair, 

But  roses  in  her  shining  hair, 

She  smiles,  a  joyous  bride. 


Mildred’s  Doves 

The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms. — Tennyson’s 
“  Princess.” 

Fair  Mildred  wide  her  lattice  threw, 

And  beckoned  tenderly : 

“  Come,  glad  wood  doves,  come,  pretty  doves, 

And  coo  a  while  to  me! 

129 


Come  nestle  fondly  in  my  arms, 

As  hopes  do  in  my  breast, 

That  list’ning  to  your  cadence  sweet 
May  lull  my  fears  to  rest.” 

The  doves  from  out  the  branches  flew, 
And  nestled  round  the  maid; 

She  whisp’ring  low  her  lover’s  name, 
Gazed  wistful  down  the  glade. 

The  postman  halted  at  the  gate, 

Pale  Mildred’s  heart  beat  high; 

“Why  comes  he  here  instead  of  Ralph? 
O  Sorrow,  pass  me  by !  ” 

He  quick  unto  the  lattice  sped, 

She  read,  then  cried  aloud: 

“  Alas !  my  Ralph  beneath  the  waves, 
With  seaweed  for  a  shroud! 

It  cannot  be!  it  may  not  be! 

Depart !  ye  cruel  dreams ! 

Depart  ye  doves,  sad,  moaning  doves ! 
Your  song  a  mock’ry  seems!” 

The  orange  moon  rose  in  the  east, 

The  flow’rs  swayed  in  the  breeze; 
Unconsciously  yet  mournfully, 

The  doves  cooed  in  the  trees. 

She  wrung  her  hands  imploringly, 

“  Ah !  woe  is  me !  I  seem 

To  be  unwaking;  cease,  sad  doves! 

He  lives  !  ’tis  but  a  dream !  *’ 


Little  Fay’s  Thanksgiving 

The  squire  sat  alone  beside  the  board, 

So  lavish  with  its  sumptuous  fare  that  day, 

With  costly  glass,  and  shining  silver  decked  ; 

But  naught  could  banish  gloomy  thought  away 

130 


From  his  deep  musing.  ’TVas  Thanksgiving,  yes 
Yet  could  he  offer  thanks  with  no  one  near 
To  join  in  grateful  praises?  Why  to-day 
Was  he  so  utterly  devoid  of  cheer? 

What  were  the  words  the  preacher  said  that  morn 
Words  that  so  smote  upon  his  weary  heart? 

“  Lo  i  as  ye’ve  done  it  to  the  least  of  these. 

Ye’ve  done  it  unto  me.”  Had  he  a  part 
In  that  sweet  homily?  Then  why  alone 
Sat  he  to-day  beside  his  sumptuous  board? 

Were  there  no  poor  to  feed,  no  famished  ones, 

To  catch  some  crumbs  from  his  abundant  hoard? 

And  as  he  sadly  mused  a  vision  seemed 
To  lure  him  backward,  for  his  Mattie  came, — 

His  only  daughter  who  had  wed  with  one, 

In  whom  his  poverty  was  counted  shame 
Unto  the  squire,  and  he  cast  her  off, 

His  child,  his  only  child,  and  then  she  died ; 

And  now,  yea!  all  his  gold  he’d  freely  give 
To  have  her  back — so  humble  was  his  pride. 

The  squire  woke  and  raised  his  weary  head; 

There  stood  the  table  with  its  dainties  piled. 

But  hark!  he  hears  the  patter  of  a  foot: 

A  low,  soft  tread  as  of  a  little  child. 

Yes !  gazing  at  him  with  wide,  wistful  eyes, 

He  saw  a  tiny  girl  of  winsome  face — ■ 

Clasping  her  rosy  fingers  round  a  shawl- - 
Whose  ev’ry  attitude  spoke  childish  grace. 

“  My  wee  one,  who  art  thou  ?  ”  the  squire  said : 
“I’m  little  Fay  and  live  with  grandpa  there 
Down  by  the  big  elm  tree,”  the  child  replied, 
Smiling  and  throwing  back  her  tangled  hair. 

131 


“  Grandpa  is  blind  and  pretty  baskets  weaves 
While  I  sing  to  him,”  prattled  little  Fay; 

“  But  grandpa’s  sick  and  all  the  bread  is  gone, 
And  so  I’ve  come,  for  ’tis  Thanksgiving  Day. 


“  And  Sallie  Wynne,  the  girl  who  lives  next  door, 

Says  ev’ry  one  must  have  a  feast  to-day ; 

A  great  big  turkey  and  some  pies  and  cakes ; 

And  so  I’ve  come — you’re  very  rich,  they  say — 

And  you  must  send  my  grandpa,  O,  a  lot 
Of  goodies,  and  he’ll  eat  and  cry  and  say, 

‘  Oh !  what  a  happy  grandpa  I  must  be,’ 

And  then  he’ll  end:  ‘God  bless  thee,  little  Fay!’” 

She  ceased  a  moment  and  the  squire  rubbed 
His  moistened  eyes,  and  kissed  the  trustful  child; 

And  though  the  snow  a  fleecy  curtain  hung 
About  the  windows  and  the  wind  shrieked  wild, 

He  sent  a  bounteous  store  to  that  drear  home; 

For  was  it  not  that  unto  such  as  she — 

The  little  ones — we  should  do  loving  deeds  ? 

And  a  changed  man  from  that  glad  day  was  he. 

“  Grandpa,  I’ve  brought  your  dinner,  O  come  quick !  ” 
Cried  little  Fay  who  from  a  carriage  stepped  ; 

And  then  the  blind  man  rose  with  happy  heart 
From  the  low  pallet  where  he  long  had  slept. 

Oh !  what  a  feast  they  had,  grandpa  and  she ; 

It  was  indeed  a  glad  Thanksgiving  Day! 

And  as  he  raised  his  sightless  eyes  to  Heartn 
In  thanks,  he  cried:  “  God  bless  thee,  little  Fay!” 


132 


CHANSONS  D’AMOUR 


The  Dawn  of  Love 


Within  my  .  casement  came  one  night 
The  fairy  Moon,  so  pure  and  white. 

Around  my  brow  a  coronet 

Of  shining  silver  quaintly  set 

With  rainbow  gems,  she  there  did  place ; 

But  when  I  turned  my  wistful  face, 

Lo !  she  had  vanished,  and  my  gaze 
Saw  naught  save  shadows  ’mid  the  haze. 

I  felt  a  throb  within  my  heart, 

In  which  sad  sorrow  had  no  part; 

Within  my  soul  a  yearning  grew, 

So  sweet  it  thrilled  me  through  and  through. 
A  flute’s  soft  warble  echoed  nigh, 

As  if  an  angel  fluttered  by ; 

And  on  my  lips  there  fell  a  kiss  ; — 

Speak !  fairy  Moon,  interpret  this ! 


The  Siren  Bird 

A  little  bird,  a  tender  bird. 

Flew  singing  ’neath  my  eaves ; 

Its  note  was  one  that  in  the  soul 
Unrest  and  yearning  leaves. 

’Twas  not  the  bluebird  on  the  branch, 
’Twas  not  the  lark  on  high, 

Sending  delicious  melody 
From  deeps  of  pearly  sky. 

134 


’Twas  not  the  robin  to  his  mate, 

Piercing  the  matin  air, 

’Twas  not  the  dove  in  shady  wood, 

Pouring  mysterious  prayer. 

What  are  thou,  art  thou,  wee,  wee  bird 
Bathed  in  ecstatic  song? 

Those  burnished  plumes,  that  siren  strain 
Must  to  strange  realms  belong. 

’Twas  Love  came  singing  ’neath  my  eaves, 
My  heart’s  eaves,  tenderly ; 

And  this  the  burthen  of  his  song: 

“  Sweet,  may  I  dwell  with  thee?  ” 

O  mystic  bird,  come  home  to  me! 

Here  dwell  and  muse  and  sing; 

Lull  me  forever  with  that  strain, 

Fold  me  beneath  thy  wing! 


Reunited 

Sang  a  maiden  in  a  meadow, 

O  so  lonely  though  so  fair; 

And  her  plaintive  carol  fluttered 
Like  a  psalm  along  the  air. 

Soon  a  youth  came  gaily  tripping, 

Full  of  fawn-like,  airy  grace; 

And  he  heard  the  maiden  singing, 

And  he  looked  in  her  sweet  face. 

In  her  lovely  face  so  mournful, 

Where  her  star-eyes  gleamed  with  tears, 
And  he  said:  “Fair  maid,  take  comfort! 
For  I’ve  loved  thee  many  years. 

135 


“  Oft  thou  earnest  like  a  vision, 

Flinging  wide  thy  golden  hair, 

While  thine  eyes,  so  sweet,  so  holy, 
Seemed  to  make  for  me  a  prayer. 

“  Long  I’ve  sought  thee  in  the  meadow, 
List’ning  ever  for  thy  song; 

Thou  art  she,  that  radiant  vision, 

To  each  other  we  belong.” 

Light  he  tripped  along  the  mountains, 
With  the  maiden  by  the  hand; 

And  I  heard  her  joyous  carol 
Echoing  through  the  summer  land. 


Love’s  Vista 

Love  oped  a  vista  rare  with  stars 
That  overshone  a  dewy  height; 

Glad-Heart  enwrapt  in  dreams,  saw  naught 
Save  radiance  and  bloom  and  light. 

The  fairest  dove  sang  in  the  boughs 
The  sweetest  songs  that  e’er  were  heard; 
Glad-Heart  strayed  reckless  down  the  glades, 
Lured  strangely  by  the  cooing  bird. 

Yes !  strangely  lured,  till  suddenly 
The  dove  did  moan  and  wail,  and  lo ! 

The  stars  went  out  in  darkness :  all 
Was  bitterness  and  gloom  and  woe. 

Ah!  haste,  Glad-Heart,  go  back,  go  back! 
The  vistas  are  not  bloomy  now; 

Veiled  is  the  dewy  height:  henceforth 
Unto  the  tempest  bare  thy  brow. 

136 


Yet  sweet,  sweet  dove,  when  life  is  drear, 
Come  chant  again  that  dreamy  lay; 

O  tender  Love,  send  shining  stars 
To  light  her  soul,  once  more,  some  day. 


My  Spirit’s  Complement 

Thy  life  hath  touched  the  edges  of  my  life, 

All  glistening  and  moist  with  sunlit  dew. 

They  touched,  they  paused, — then  drifted  wide  apart, 
Each  gleaming  with  a  rare  prismatic  hue. 

’Twas  but  a  touch!  the  edges  of  a  life 
Alone  encolored  with  the  rose,  yet  lo ! 

Each  fibre  started  into  strange  unrest, 

And  then  was  stilled,  lulled  to  a  rhythmic  flow. 

Perchance  our  spirits  clasp  on  some  fair  isle, 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  reveries  divine ; 

Or  list’ning  to  such  strains  as  chant  the  stars, 

In  purest  harmonj-  their  tendrils  twine. 

God  grant  our  souls  may  meet  in  Paradise, 

After  the  mystery  of  life’s  sweet  pain ; 

And  find  the  strange  prismatic  hues  of  earth 
Transmuted  to  the  spotless  light  again. 


Recompensed? 

She  roamed  the  meadows  long  in  hope 
That  in  some  sunny  dingle  fair, 

She’d  meet  her  youth  with  golden  hair, 
Giving  to  her  some  little  care; 

Alas !  unloved  she  seemed  to  grope. 

He  was  not  there,  in  vain  her  prayer. 
137 


One  mom  she  saw  him;  ’gainst  her  will 
Her  waiting  heart  did  faster  beat; 

And  yet  he  came  not  her  to  greet, 

Nor  did  his  eyes  her  sad  eyes  meet. 

“  O  wayward  heart !  ”  she  said,  “  be  still 
It  is  not  he!  it  cannot  be! 

“  Ah !  welladay !  my  dream  is  o’er. 

I  must  the  bitter  truth  believe; 

Why  still  my  soul  with  hopes  deceive? 
’Twas  he !  and  yet  the  more  I  grieve 
I  love  him  better  than  before. 

Ah!  if  he  knew,  he’d  love  me  too.” 


The  Messengers 

Sat  a  damsel  on  the  hillside 
In  the  fading  afternoon, 

When  the  Summer  flung  her  roses 
In  the  grassy  lap  of  June; 

Came  three  elves  and  danced  around  her, 
Blithesome,  sprightly  creatures  they, 
Like  the  birds  that  soar  above  us, 

Or  glad  children  at  their  play. 

Said  the  first  one:  “Damsel,  follow! 
With  us  to  the  forest  hie; 

Lisping  streams  will  bid  thee  welcome, 
As  they  mirror  back  the  sky. 

Sad-eyed  doves  will  coo  a  greeting 
As  they  flutter  ’mid  the  leaves.” 

Said  the  damsel:  “  Nay,  I  cannot, 

For  my  tender  mother  grieves.” 

Said  the  second:  “Damsel,  hear  me! 
We  have  there  a  home  for  thee, 

138 


Where  we’ve  built  fair  jess’mine  bowers 
Through  the  sunny  greenery. 

We  will  dance  at  early  morning, 

And  sing  quiet  lays  at  eve.” 

Said  the  damsel:  “Nay,  entreat  not, 
For  my  mother  much  would  grieve.” 

Said  the  third  one :  “  Damsel,  Damsel ! 
Love  is  waiting  for  thee  there, 

With  a  wreath  of  shining  moonbeams 
Twined  about  his  flowing  hair. 

He  has  taught  soft  flutes  to  quiver 
With  the  music  of  his  heart. 

Little  Damsel,  charming  Damsel, 

Wilt  not  come  and  do  thy  part?  ” 

Then  the  damsel  rose  and  followed 
To  the  dreamy  forest  glade, 

And  a  tranquil,  rippling  cadence 
Was  the  only  sound  she  made. 

Had  the  lisping  streams  enticed  her? 
Were  the  jess’mine  bowers  so  fair? 

Or  was  it  a  mystic  heart-call 
That  is  potent  everywhere? 


O  Restless  Heart,  Be  Still! 

O  restless  heart,  be  still! 

’Tis  thine  by  peaceful  founts  to  rove; 
Why  comes  the  cruel  archer  Love 
To  shoot  with  reckless  will? 
Peace !  restless  heart,  be  still ! 

Calm,  restless  heart,  so  calm, 

Thou  ling’redst  dreamily  to  wait 
Where  sang  the  ringdove  to  his  mate, 
A  quiet,  holy  psalm. 

Calm,  restless  heart,  so  calm! 
139 


Now,  restless  heart,  ’tis  done! 

No  longer  under  starry  skies 
Thou’lt  stray  with  yearning  in  thine  eyes ; 
And  yet,  poor  fluttered  one, 

Is  comfort  ’neath  the  sun  ? 

Nay!  nay!  but  sure  ’twere  best 

That  Love  should  fold  thee  ’neath  his  wing, 

And  to  thy  soul  sweet  snatches  sing; 

Yet  it  must  be  confessed 
It  is  not  surely  rest! 


Boat  Song 

O  rocking  boat,  rocking  boat  poised  on  the  wave, 
Sway  gently,  sway  gently ;  the  bird  to  his  nest 
Is  speeding,  while  Day  with  the  airiest  tread, 
Approaches  the  wond’rous  rose-courts  of  the  West. 

O  rocking  boat,  rocking  boat  cradled  ’mid  foam, 

Glide  swiftly,  glide  swiftly,  for  there  on  the  shore, 
In  dreams  ’neath  the  trysting  tree,  murm’ring  my  name 
Is  she  whom  my  heart  will  enshrine  evermore. 

O  rocking  boat,  rocking  boat,  low  swings  the  moon, 
The  stars  kiss  the  billows,  I  may  not  delay; 

Draw  nearer,  draw  nearer,  I  see  the  trees  stir; 

We’re  moored  and  my  darling  is  mine,  mine  for  aye! 


Cuckoo  Song 

Cuckoo,  glad  cuckoo,  Oh!  where  wilt  thou  rest  to-night? 
Cuckoo,  fly  southward  and  find  a  new  nest  to-night. 
Birds  that  are  roaming 
Far  ’mid  the  gloaming, 

Hie  to  their  leafy  home 
140 


When  they  have  ceased  to  roam. 

But  where  is  thine, 

Ay,  and  where  mine? 

Hesperus,  silver  star,  glow  in  the  West  to-night! 
Restless  I  wander  and  cannot  find  rest  to-night. 

Golden  thou  gleamest, 

And  ever  seemest 
Like  eye  of  seraph  fair, 

Lone  in  the  radiant  air. 

Fair  evening  Queen, 

What  may  it  mean? 

There’s  a  sweet  singing  bird  comes  to  my  breast  to-night, 
Fluttering  strangely,  builds  there  a  nest  to-night. 
Cuckoo,  hast  sent  him, 

And  swift  wings  lent  him? 

Hesperus,  sunset  star! 

Comes  he  from  thee  afar? 

Love  is  his  name, 

Me  shall  he  claim? 


141 


QUATRAINS 


At  Sunset 

Into  his  rosy  chamber  stepped  the  Sun, 

Fair  Venus  lit  her  vestal  lamp  of  gold; 

A  magic  stillness  did  the  earth  enfold, 

The  coming  Night  a  newer  grace  had  won. 

Life’s  Boundary 

Life  is  a  glass  wherein  we  dimly  see 

Foreshadowings  of  our  devious  plans  and  ways 
Life  is  a  glass.  Lo!  ’tis  Eternity 

That  bounds  the  dim  perspective  of  our  days. 

Charity 

I  saw  a  maiden,  fairest  of  the  fair, 

With  every  grace  bedight  beyond  compare. 
Said  I,  “What  doest  thou,  pray,  tell  to  me!” 
“  I  see  the  good  in  others,”  answered  she. 

Awakening 

The  faint-flushed  buds  awake  within  the  cup 
Of  myriad  folded  roses  yet  to  be; 

Ere  Life  can  drink  its  utmost  sweetness  up, 

Love  flutters,  wakens,  O  how  sweet  to  see! 

Lost  Opportunities 

When  it  is  past — the  golden  moment — gone ! 
How  we  do  rend  ourselves,  undone,  forlorn! 
The  jewel  left  a  moment  in  our  hands, 

We  search,  yet  find  it  not  o’er  widest  lands. 
144 


Ambition 


What  is  ambition?  ’tis  unrest,  defeat! 

A  goad,  a  spur,  a  quick’ning  the  heart’s  beat 
A  fevered  pulse,  a  grasp  at  shadows  fleet, 

A  beck’ning  vision,  fair,  illusive,  sweet! 


Full  Vision 


But  look  a  trial  down  from  some  far  height, 
And  ’twill  diminish  to  a  speck  in  air. 
Half-vision  irks  and  frets.  Let  on  the  light! 
The  demon  vanishes  before  a  prayer. 


After  the  Storm 

Sol  took  his  nightcap  off  and  gazed 
Through  cloudy  curtains.  At  the  sight 
The  mists  fled  scared  to  windy  haunts ; 

And  lo !  the  earth  was  filled  with  light. 


At  the  Cascade 

The  waters  rippled,  gleamed  and  fell ; 
Sweet  Jessie  tripped  adown  the  dell. 

She  heard  his  voice,  their  fond  lips  met; 
The  rocks  with  silver  spray  wTere  wet. 


Nature’s  Uplifting 

The  soul  that’s  fed  on  Nature  is  content 
To  lift  itself  in  all-adoring  love 
Unto  the  Father  who  such  glories  sent, — 
A  shadow  of  the  fairer  joys  above. 

145 


Instability 


What  we  to-day  prize  and  most  fondly  cherish, 
To-morrow  scarce  may  claim  a  moment’s  reckoning. 
Yet  why  adjust  the  cause?  Let  doubt  all  perish. 

Can  argument  withstand  the  spirit’s  beck’ning? 


The  Afterglow 

The  rose  and  gold  and  violet 
Were  fairest  when  the  sun  had  set; 
So  when  life’s  noblest  battle’s  won, 
Peace  comes  at  setting  of  the  sun. 


146 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  THE  SEASONS 


January 


To  herald  in  another  year, 

With  rhythmic  note  the  snowflakes  fall 
Silently  from  their  crystal  courts, 

To  answer  Winter’s  call. 

Wake,  mortal!  Time  is  winged  anew! 

Call  Love  and  Hope  and  Faith  to  fill 
The  chambers  of  thy  soul  to-day; 

Life  hath  its  blessings  still! 


February 

The  icicles  upon  the  pane 
Are  busy  architects ;  they  leave 
What  temples  and  what  chiseled  forms 
Of  leaf  and  flower.  Then  believe 
That  though  the  woods  be  brown  and  bare, 

And  sunbeams  peep  through  cloudy  veils, 
Though  tempests  howl  through  leaden  skies, 
The  Springtime  never  fails! 


March 

Robin !  Robin !  call  the  Springtime ! 

March  is  halting  on  his  way ; 

Hear  the  gusts.  What!  snowflakes  falling! 
Look  not  for  the  grass  to-day. 

Ay,  the  wind  will  frisk  and  play, 

And  we  cannot  say  it  nay. 

148 


April 


She  trips  across  the  meadows, 

The  weird,  capricious  elf! 

The  buds  unfold  their  perfumed  cups 
For  love  of  her  sweet  self ; 

And  silver-throated  birds  begin  to  tune  their  lyres, 
While  wind-harps  lend  their  strains  to  Nature’s  magic 
choirs. 


May 

Sweet,  winsome  May,  coy,  pensive  fay, 

Comes  garlanded  with  lily-bells, 

And  apple  blooms  shed  incense  through  the  bow’r, 
To  be  her  dow’r; 

While  through  the  leafy  dells 
A  wondrous  concert  swells 
To  welcome  May,  the  dainty  fay. 


June 

Roses,  roses,  roses, 

Creamy,  fragrant,  dewy! 

See  the  rainbow  shower! 

Was  there  e’er  so  sweet  a  flower? 

I’m  the  rose-nymph,  June  they  call  me. 
Sunset’s  blush  is  not  more  fair 
Than  the  gift  of  bloom  so  rare, 
Mortal,  that  I  bring  to  thee! 


July 

Sunshine  and  shadow  play  amid  the  trees 
In  bosky  groves,  while  from  the  vivid  sky 
The  sun’s  gold  arrows  fleck  the  fields  at  noon, 
Where  weary  cattle  to  their  slumber  hie. 
149 


How  sweet  the  music  of  the  purling  rill, 
Trickling  adown  the  grassy  hill! 

While  dreamy  fancies  come  to  give  repose 
When  the  first  star  of  evening  glows. 


August 

Haste  to  the  mighty  ocean, 

List  to  the  lapsing  waves ; 

With  what  a  strange  commotion 
They  seek  their  coral  caves. 

From  heat  and  turmoil  let  us  oft  return, 
The  ocean’s  solemn  majesty  to  learn. 


September 

With  what  a  gentle  sound 

The  autumn  leaves  drop  to  the  ground; 

With  many-colored  dyes, 

They  greet  our  watching  eyes. 

Rosy  and  russet,  how  they  fall! 

Throwing  o’er  earth  a  leafy  pall. 

October 

The  mellow  moon  hangs  golden  in  the  sky, 

The  vintage  song  is  over,  far  and  nigh 
A  richer  beauty  Nature  weareth  now, 

And  silently,  in  reverence  we  bow 

Before  the  forest  altars,  offering  praise 

To  Him  who  sweetness  gives  to  all  our  days. 


November 

The  leaves  are  sere, 

The  woods  are  drear, 
150 


The  breeze  that  erst  so  merrily  did  play, 
Naught  giveth  save  a  melancholy  lay; 
Yet  life’s  great  lessons  do  not  fail 
E’en  in  November’s  gale. 


December 

List !  list !  the  sleigh  bells  peal  across  the  snow 
The  frost’s  sharp  arrows  touch  the  earth  and  lo ! 
How  diamond-bright  the  stars  do  scintillate 
When  Night  hath  lit  her  lamps  to  Heaven’s  gate. 
To  the  dim  forest’s  cloistered  arches  go, 

And  seek  the  holly  and  the  mistletoe; 

For  soon  the  bells  of  Christmas-tide  will  ring 
To  hail  the  Heavenly  King! 


151 


THE  SEER,  THE  SINGER  AND  THE  SAGE 


Dante 


Hare  medieval  Spirit !  brooding  Seer! 

Grand,  lonely  Poet!  scaling  heights  divine, 

And  lifting  from  grave  mysteries  the  veil, 

Through  the  dim  centuries  thou  speakest  still 
In  tones  of  thunder;  and  subdued  by  awe 
We  listen,  for  thy  intuitions  fine, 

Thv  insight  keen  discovered  motives  hid, 

Aind  aim  close  wound  in  aim  thou  couldst  perceive, 
Unwinding  minor  aims  in  which  ’twas  wrapt. 

Knit  with  the  very  fibres  of  thy  soul, 

Thy  country’s  weal  a  cherished  charge  became; 

And  Destiny  stem  frowning  o’er  the  land, 

Upheaved  thy  feelings  and  inflamed  thy  speech. 
Indignant  at  the  wrongs  that  Florence  bore, 

Florence,  thy  well-beloved,  thy  hallowed  home, 

With  stem  denunciation  thou  didst  wage 
Against  the  law’s  lax  mandates  bloody  war, 

And  all  unawed,  rebuked  the  false  decrees 
Of  kings,  of  conquerors,  popes  and  cardinals, 

The  pure  “  white  flower  ”  waving  in  thy  hand. 

Thy  thought  self-poised,  self-centered,  dragged  thy  soul 
Into  what  depths  of  grief  and  deepest  pain ! 

But  to  posterity  thou  didst  bequeathe — 

Despite  the  scathing  of  the  contest  fierce — 

Thy  reveries’  illuminated  page. 

The  groans  of  spirits  plunged  in  woe’s  abyss, 

The  sweet  repentance  of  the  wistful  souls 
Climbing  in  patience  Purgatory’s  steep, 

Called  thee  to  muse  on  life’s  strange  mystery. 

Before  thy  vision  what  fair  vistas  stretched, 

154 


Empurpled  with  the  glow  of  Paradise ! 

Thou  heardst  in  dreams  the  harmonies  sublime 
Of  martyr  glorified  and  rapturous  saint. 

And  she,  Beatrice  the  celestial  one, 

Who  woke  thy  heart’s  best  love  and  sweetest  joy, 
Alone  was  meet  to  guide  thy  willing  steps 
From  planet  to  fixed  star,  and  onward  still, 

Above  the  splendor  of  the  luminous  stars, 

Where  blessed  souls  their  orisons  uplift, 

And  isles  supernal  bloom  with  amaranth  fair, 

Up  to  the  Empyrean’s  crystal  courts, 

Where  Majesty  Divine  enthrones  itself. 

And  soon  the  Perfect  Vision  met  thy  gaze, 

The  mystic  Trinity  all  solved  by  light. 

Three  colors,  three  reflections  in  the  one, 

Christ  was  revealed — the  Human,  the  Divine ! 

God’s  plan  for  our  redemption  clear  to  thee ! 

And  now,  O  lonely  Spirit,  brooding  Seer! 

So  long  in  conflict,  weary  with  unrest, 

Within  the  beatific  realms  above, 

Bathed  in  that  Light  Ineffable  thou  dwell’st, 

O  yearning  Soul,  at  last,  at  last  in  peace! 


Longfellow 

The  “  Psalm  of  Life  ”  for  thee  is  o’er, 

O  bard  serenest !  on  the  shore 
Of  shad’wy  Time,  we  see  complete 
Thy  life  so  rounded,  fair  and  sweet. 

Thy  tender  thoughts,  thy  soothing  rhyme, 
Like  sweet  bells  ringing,  e’er  will  chime 
With  much  of  hope  and  joy  and  need, 

For  thou  couldst  soothe  and  cheer  indeed. 

Like  pictures  in  some  stately  hall, 

Hung  where  the  loving  gaze  of  all 

155 


May  seek  contentment,  thy  true  verse 
May  to  each  one  some  truth  rehearse. 

Who  now  can  climb  the  Alpine  height, 

Nor  see  clear  in  the  gleaming  light, 

The  word  that  mystic  banner  bore, 

That  potent  word, — “  Excelsior  ?  ” 

When  dainty  moonlight  veils  the  stars, 

We  see  framed  in  its  “golden  bars,” 

“  Endymion  and  Dian  ”  fair, 

While  Love  floats  radiant  through  the  air. 

Shall  we  not  oft  at  midnight  hour 
When  silence  reigns  with  mystic  pow’r, 
Hear  loud  “  the  old  clock  on  the  stairs,” 
Its  requiem  mingling  with  our  prayers? 

When  fierce  the  tempest  roars  o’erhead 
And  e’en  the  mariner  knows  dread, 

Behold  the  little  maiden  fair, 

The  seaweed  clinging  to  her  hair! 

Evangeline  and  Gabriel! 

When  woman’s  constancy  we  tell, 

Her  name  in  brightest  hues  shall  shine, 

Who  made  devotion  so  divine. 

And  Minnehaha!  we  can  see 
A  scene  of  grace  and  witchery 
When  her  we  call ;  and  then  the  grief 
And  pathos  of  her  warrior  chief. 

When  round  the  hearth  some  vacant  chair 
Is  all  the  answer  to  our  prayer, 

We  hear  thee  say,  “  Death  is  transition  ” 
But  leading  to  the  “  life  elysian.” 

156 


When  “  day  is  done  ”  and  misty  shades 
Are  deep’ning  all  the  solemn  glades, 

And  sadness  comes,  who  well  as  thou, 

Can  rest  and  cheer  and  calm  us  now? 

We  fain — the  “architects  of  Fate” — 

Would  wisely  build;  though  naught  of  great 
May  be  the  end  of  all  our  care, 

We  still  will  hope  and  nobly  dare. 

So  runs  our  life  with  thine,  sweet  friend, 

And  now  when  all  thy  soul-songs  blend 
With  Heaven’s  music,  shall  not  we 
Still  sweeter  rev’rence  give  to  thee? 


A  Thought  at  Walden 

( After  visiting  the  site  of  Thoreau's  Hut) 

O  sylvan  priest  of  Nature!  rightly  thou 
Didst  read  her  lessons ;  on  thy  solemn  brow 
Was  left  the  dew  of  morning,  and  thine  eyes 
Saw  deepest  meaning  in  the  changing  skies. 
Thine  ear  attuned  to  catch  her  subtlest  sound, 
Heard  quaintest  music  trilling  from  the  ground. 
The  robin  warbling  on  the  leafy  spray, 

The  lark  upsoaring  to  salute  the  day, 

Were  more  than  simple  warblers  unto  thee, 

And  e’en  the  tinest  insect  on  the  lea. 

Nature,  thy  mother,  taught  thy  spirit  fine 
The  essence  of  her  cadences  divine ; 

And  earth  being  to  thee  naught  save  joy  and  praise, 
Made  of  thy  living  rare  and  wondrous  days. 


157 


HEROIC  ECHOES 


Quebec 


O  antique  city  on  St.  Lawrence  shore, 

A  relic,  e’en  a  page  of  ancient  lore 
Thou  art!  Thy  granite  fortress  tow’ring  high, 
Stretching  its  massive  bulwarks  toward  the  sky, 
Tells  of  the  march  of  war  when  nations  proud 
Proclaimed  the  force  of  arms  in  accents  loud, — 
The  mighty  cannon’s  boom ;  and  valor  rose, 

While  fearless  armies  ranged  themselves  as  foes. 
Here  met  two  noble  souls,— two  chieftains  brave, 
Cast  in  heroic  mould.  Stem  Fortune  gave 
To  one, — the  victor’s  meed;  to  each,  a  grave! 

Renowned  Champlain  first  gave  these  rocky  heights 
A  name.  Of  yore  full  oft  on  starlight  nights 
The  Indian  war-whoop  echoed  round  these  plains, 
And  smote  the  desert  shores  with  sad  refrains. 

Thy  limpid  waters,  fair  St.  Lawrence,  bore 
Unchecked  the  rude  canoe.  Forevermore 
In  song  and  story  will  the  red  man  be 
A  part  of  thy  broad  stream.  Time  unto  thee 
Will  add  fresh  lustre  as  the  ages  roll, 

And  from  life’s  warfare  many  a  thoughtful  soul 
Hither  repair,  as  to  a  pilgrim’s  goal. 

Yet  why  a  pilgrim’s  goal?  Was  it  not  here 
That  valiant  armies  met,  and  ev’ry  fear 
Was  lulled  in  hope  of  conquest?  Was’t  not  here 
On  sunlit  plains  Wolfe’s  gallant  troops  drew  near 
And  marched  to  vict’ry  ere  the  morning  broke? 

Yes !  e’en  on  Abraham’s  plains  when  courage  woke, 

160 


The  great  commander  closed  his  eyes  in  death; 

But  as  he  yielded  up  life’s  fitful  breath, 

And  to  proud  England’s  isles  the  honor  gave, 

He  claimed  the  poet’s  lines, — this  soldier  brave : 

“  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave.” 

A  stately  column  here  attests  his  worth, 

And  e’en  the  hero  to  whom  France  gave  birth, 
Despite  he  fell,  shorn  of  the  conqueror’s  wreath, 
Not  without  glorious  deeds  within  the  sheath 
Placed  he  his  sword.  His  honored  ashes  lie 
Where  soft  the  vesper  hymn  goes  echoing  by, 
Within  the  quiet  convent’s  pious  shade. 

Such  are  the  heroes  that  thy  glory  made, 

O  antique  city  by  St.  Lawrence  shore! 

And  long  as  round  thee  mighty  waters  roar, 

Thou  wilt  remain, — a  page  of  ancient  lore! 

In  Memorial 
(Frederick  Douglass') 

One  whose  majestic  presence  ever  here, 

Was  as  an  inspiration  held  so  dear, 

Will  greet  us  nevermore  upon  the  earth. 

The  funeral  bells  have  rung;  there  was  no  dearth 
Of  sorrow  as  the  solemn  cortege  passed ; 

But  ours;  is  a  grief  that  will  outlast 
The  civic  splendor.  Say,  among  all  men, 

Who  was  this  hero  that  they  buried  then, 

With  saddest  plaint  and  sorrow-stricken  face? 

Ay !  ’twas  a  princely  leader  of  his  race ! 

And  for  a  leader  well  equipped  was  he; 

Nature  had  given  him  most  regally 
E’en  of  her  choicest  gifts.  What  matter  then 
That  he  in  chains  was  held,  what  matter  when 
He  could  uplift  himself  to  noblest  heights. 

161 


E’en  with  his  native  greatness,  neither  slights 
Nor  wrongs  could  harm  him ;  and  a  solemn  wrath 
Burned  in  his  soul.  He  well  saw  duty’s  path; 

His  days  heroic  purposes  did  know, 

And  could  he  then  his  chosen  work  forego? 

Bora  to  a  fate  most  wretched,  most  forlorn! 

A  slave!  alas!  of  benefits  all  shorn 
Upon  his  entrance  into  life,  what  lot 
More  destitute  of  hope!  Yet  e’en  that  blot 
Could  not  suffice  to  dim  the  glowing  page 
He  leaves  to  History ;  for  he  could  wage 
Against  oppression’s  deadliest  blows  a  war 
That  knew  no  ending,  until  nevermore 
Should  any  man  be  called  a  bondman.  Ay! 

Such  was  a  conflict  for  which  one  could  die! 

Panting  for  freedom  early,  he  did  dare 
To  throw  aside  his  shackles,  for  the  air 
Of  slavery  is  poison  unto  men 
Moulded  as  Douglass  was;  they  suffer,  then 
Manhood  asserts  itself ;  they  are  too  brave, 

Such  souls  as  his,  to  die  content  a  slave. 

So  being  free,  one  path  alone  he  trod, 

To  bring  to  liberty — sweet  boon  from  God — 

His  deeply  injured  race;  his  tireless  zeal 
Was  consecrated  to  the  bondman’s  weal. 

He  thought  of  children  sobbing  round  the  knees 
Of  hopeless  mothers,  where  the  summer  breeze 
Blew  o’er  the  dank  savannas.  What  of  woe 
In  their  sad  story  that  he  did  not  know ! 

He  was  a  valiant  leader  in  a  cause 
Than  none  less  noble,  though  the  nation’s  laws 
Did  seem  to  spurn  it;  and  his  matchless  speech 
To  Britain’s  sea-girt  island  shores  did  reach. 

Our  Cicero,  and  yet  our  warrior  knight, 

Striving  to  show  mankind  might  is  not  right ! 

162 


He  saw  the  slave  uplifted  from  the  dust, 

A  freeman !  Loyal  to  the  sacred  trust 
He  gave  himself  in  youth,  with  voice  and  pen, 
He  had  been  to  the  end.  And  now  again 
The  grandest  efforts  of  that  brain  and  heart 
In  ev’ry  human  sorrow  bore  a  part. 

His  regnant  intellect,  his  dignity, 

Did  make  him  honored  among  all  to  be; 

And  public  trusts  his  country  gladly  gave 
Unto  this  princely  leader,  bom  a  slave! 

Shall  the  race  falter  in  its  courage  now 
That  the  great  chief  is  fallen?  Shall  it  bow 
Tamely  to  aught  of  injury?  Ah,  nay! 

For  daring  souls  are  needed  e’en  to-day. 

Let  his  example  be  a  shining  light, 

Leading  through  duty’s  paths  to  some  far  height 
Of  undreamed  victory.  All  honored  be 
The  silv’ry  head  of  him  we  no  more  see! 

Children  unborn  will  venerate  his  name, 

And  History  keep  spotless  his  fair  fame. 

The  Romans  wove  bright  leafy  crowns  for  those 
Who  saved  a  life  in  battle  with  their  foes ; 

And  shall  not  we  as  rare  a  chaplet  weave 
To  that  great  master-soul  for  whom  we  grieve? 
Yea !  Since  not  always  on  the  battle-field 
Are  the  best  vict’ries  won ;  for  they  who  yield 
Themselves  to  conquer  in  a  losing  cause, 
Because  ’tis  right  in  God’s  eternal  laws, 

Do  noblest  battle;  therefore  fitly  we 

Upon  their  brows  a  victor’s  crown  would  see. 

Yes!  our  great  chief  has  fallen  as  might  fall 
Some  veteran  warrior,  answering  the  call 
Of  duty.  With  the  old  serenity, 

His  heart  still  strung  with  tender  sympathy, 

163 


He  passed  beyond  our  ken ;  he’ll  come  no  more 
To  give  us  stately  greeting  as  of  yore. 

We  cannot  fail  to  miss  him.  When  we  stand 
In  sudden  helplessness,  as  through  the  land 
Rings  echo  of  some  •wrong  he  could  not  brook, 
Then  vainly  for  our  leader  will  we  look. 

But  courage!  no  great  influence  can  die. 

While  he  is  doing  grander  work  on  high, 

Shall  not  his  deeds  an  inspiration  be 
To  us  left  in  life’s  struggle?  May  not  we 
Do  aught  to  emulate  him  whom  we  mourn? 

We  are  a  people  now,  no  more  forlorn 
And  hopeless.  We  must  gather  courage  then, 
Rememb’ring  that  he  stood  man  among  men. 
So  let  us  give,  now  he  has  journeyed  hence, 

To  our  great  chieftain’s  memory,  reverence! 


Greeting 

To  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  on  her  Eighty-fifth 

Birthday 

We  greet  thee  now  upon  this  festal  morn, 

O  Friend  of  Freedom!  thou  who  in  those  days 
When  human  rights  were  scorned  and  Justice  slept, 
Though  loud  the  bondman  cried,  didst  dare  to  raise 
Thy  voice  to  aid  the  lowly.  Many  a  soul 
Was  roused  to  nobler  thinking,  many  a  heart 
Impelled  to  braver  doing  by  thy  words, 

And  in  the  contest  fitted  to  bear  part. 

We  read,  and  lo !  a  vision  rises  there. 

Who  is’t  comes  here?  A  hero  crowned  with  bay? 

Ah,  no !  a  slave  in  chains,  of  meekest  mien, 

Treading  with  patient  step  a  thorny  way. 

164 


’Tis  Uncle  Tom,  sad  Uncle  Tom!  He  turns, 

He  backward  points,  and  what  do  we  descry? 
Unnumbered  hosts  in  shackles,  bleeding,  tom, 

To  wThom  it  were  a  blessing  but  to  die. 

Anon  the  vision  passes !  and  we  see 
Another  host, — a  smiling,  happy  band. 

The  chains  are  tom  away,  and  chants  of  praise 
Vibrate  along  the  mountains,  through  the  land. 
Such  was  the  boon  that  thou  didst  help  to  give, 

O  noble  woman !  and  as  years  fleet  by, 

Does  not  the  thought  of  ransomed  Uncle  Toms 
Moisten  with  tears  of  thankfulness  thine  eye? 

For  surely  naught  can  e’er  avail  to  check 
A  blessed  influence:  it  still  will  live 
While  the  majestic  stars  in  solemn  rhythm 
Wheel  in  their  mighty  orbits.  What  could  give 
Such  impulse  unto  Justice  as  the  scenes 
On  thy  pathetic  pages?  Who  could  learn 
The  story  of  that  rare,  heroic  life, 

And  not  with  deepest  indignation  burn? 

The  nation’s  shame  was  lifted  by  the  force 
Of  words  like  thine,  far  more  than  by  decrees 
Of  lordliest  statesmen  in  their  councils  grave. 

And  when  war’s  din  had  ceased,  and  on  the  breeze 
The  silv’ry  cadence  of  fair  Freedom’s  chimes 
Rang  out  in  joyful  measures,  was  the  peal 
Not  sweeter  for  the  work  that  thou  hadst  done? 
Whose  worth  the  coming  years  will  still  reveal. 

So  may  thy  birthday  be  all  bright  with  bloom 
Of  happy  thoughts,  and  from  the  stirring  past 
May  sweetest  mem’ries  come  of  those  brave  deeds 
For  Freedom  ventured.  Lo !  time  speedeth  fast, 

165 


And  loved  ones  haste  again  with  greeting  glad. 
And  as  around  they  flock  their  gifts  to  lay 
Before  thy  feet,  our  dearest  prayer  is  this: 
God’s  peace  be  thine  upon  thy  natal  day! 


In  Memoeiam 

Paul  Latjkence  Dunbae 

The  Muse  of  Poetry  came  down  one  day, 

And  brought  with  willing  hands  a  rare,  sweet  gift  ; 

She  lingered  near  the  cradle  of  a  child, 

Who  first  unto  the  sun  his  eyes  did  lift. 

She  touched  his  lips  with  true  Olympian  fire, 

And  at  her  bidding  Fancies  hastened  there, 

To  flutter  lovingly  around  the  one 
So  favored  by  the  Muse’s  gentle  care. 

Who  was  this  child?  The  offspring  of  a  race 
That  erst  had  toiled  ’neath  slavery’s  galling  chains. 
And  soon  he  woke  to  utterance  and  sang 
In  sweetly  cadenced  and  in  stirring  strains, 

Of  simple  joys,  and  yearnings,  and  regrets; 

Anon  to  loftier  themes  he  turned  his  pen ; 

For  so  in  tender,  sympathetic  mood 
He  caught  the  follies  and  the  griefs  of  men. 

His  tones  were  various :  we  list,  and  lo ! 

“  Malindy  Sings,”  and  as  the  echoes  die, 

The  keynote  changes  and  another  strain 
Of  solemn  majesty  goes  floating  by; 

And  sometimes  in  the  beauty  and  the  grace 
Of  an  impassioned,  melancholy  lay, 

We  seem  to  hear  the  surge,  and  swell,  and  moan 
Of  soft  orchestral  music  far  away. 

166 


Paul  Dunbar  dead!  His  genius  cannot  die! 

It  lives  in  songs  that  thrill,  and  glow,  and  soar; 

Their  pathos  and  their  joy  will  fill  our  hearts, 

And  charm  and  satisfy  e’en  as  of  yore. 

So  when  we  would  lament  our  poet  gone, 

With  sorrow  that  his  lyre  is  resting  now, 

Let  us  remember,  with  the  fondest  pride, 

That  Fame’s  immortal  wreath  has  crowned  his  brow. 


Lincoln 

Centenary,  February  12,  1909. 

We  lift  the  curtain  of  the  past  to-day, 

And  chase  the  mists  and  stains  of  years  away, 

Once  more,  O  martyred  chief,  to  gaze  on  thee, 

The  worth  and  purpose  of  thy  life  to  see. 

’  Twas  thine,  not  worlds  to  conquer,  but  men’s  hearts, 
To  change  to  balm  the  sting  of  slavery’s  darts, 

In  lowly  charity  thy  joy  to  find, 

And  open  “  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind.” 

Long  will  they  come,  the  freed,  with  grateful  gift, 

From  whose  sad  path  the  shadows  thou  didst  lift. 

The  years  have  rolled  their  changeful  seasons  round, 
Since  its  most  tragic  close  thy  life-work  found. 

Yet  through  the  vistas  of  the  vanished  days 
We  see  thee  still,  responsive  to  our  gaze, 

As  ever  to  thy  country’s  solemn  needs. 

Not  regal  coronets,  but  princely  deeds 
Were  thy  chaste  diadem;  of  truer  worth 
Thy  modest  virtues  than  the  gems  of  earth. 

Stanch,  honest,  fervent  in  the  purest  cause, 

Truth  was  thy  guide;  her  mandates  were  thy  laws. 

Rare  heroism,  spirit-purity, 

The  storied  Spartan’s  stem  simplicity, 

167 


Such  moral  strength  as  gleams  like  burnished  gold 
Amid  the  doubt  of  men  of  weaker  mould, 

Were  thine.  Called  in  thy  country’s  sorest  hour 
When  brother  knew  not  brother — mad  for  power — 

To  guide  the  helm  through  bloody  deeps  of  war, 

While  distant  nations  gazed  in  anxious  awe, 

Unflinching  in  the  task,  thou  didst  fulfill 
Thy  mighty  mission  with  a  deathless  will. 

Bom  to  a  destiny  the  most  sublime, 

Thou  wert,  O  Lincoln !  in  the  march  of  time, 

God  bade  thee  pause  and  bid  the  oppressed  go  free — 
Most  glorious  boon  giv’n  to  humanity. 

While  slavery  ruled  the  land,  what  deeds  were  done! 
What  tragedies  enacted  ’neath  the  sun ! 

Her  page  is  blurred  with  records  of  defeat, 

Of  lives  heroic  lived  in  silence,  meet 

For  the  world’s  praise;  of  woe,  despair  and  tears, 

The  speechless  agony  of  weary  years. 

Thou  utteredst  the  word,  and  Freedom  fair 
Rang  her  sweet  bells  on  the  clear  winter  air; 

She  waved  her  magic  wand,  and  lo !  from  far 
A  long  procession  came.  With  many  a  scar 
Their  brows  were  wrinkled,  in  the  bitter  strife, 

Full  many  had  said  their  sad  farewell  to  life. 

But  on  they  hastened,  free,  their  shackles  gone; 

The  aged,  young, — e’en  infancy  was  borne 
To  offer  unto  thee  loud  paeans  of  praise, — 

Their  happy  tribute  after  saddest  days. 

A  race  set  free!  The  deed  brought  joy  and  light! 

It  bade  calm  Justice  from  her  sacred  height, 

When  faith  and  hope  and  courage  slowly  waned, 

Unfurl  the  stars  and  stripes,  at  last  unstained ! 

The  nations  rolled  acclaim  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  Heaven’s  vault  rang  with  Freedom’s  harmony. 

168 


The  angels  ’mid  the  amaranths  must  have  hushed 
Their  chanted  cadences,  as  upward  rushed 
The  hymn  sublime:  and  as  the  echoes  pealed, 
God’s  ceaseless  benison  the  action  sealed. 

Exalted  patriot !  illustrious  chief ! 

Thy  life’s  immortal  work  compels  belief. 

To-day  in  radiance  thy  virtues  shine, 

And  how  can  we  a  fitting  garland  twine? 

Thy  crown  most  glorious  is  a  ransomed  race! 
High  on  our  country’s  scroll  we  fondly  trace, 

In  lines  of  fadeless  light  that  softly  blend, 
Emancipator,  hero,  martyr,  friend! 

While  Freedom  may  her  holy  sceptre  claim, 

The  world  shall  echo  with  Our  Lincoln’s  name. 


169 


RESTORED  BY 


MARKING  8c  REPAIR  STAFF 
DATE:  /-lo\J  ,198? 


r 

9  R263P 


31S428 


